


Packages

by Silential



Series: Packages [1]
Category: Dead Fish (2005), Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Humiliation, Male Submissive, lingerie fetish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:25:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silential/pseuds/Silential
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The postal service has been delivering Danny’s packages to Belle, his neighbor. That would be fine, if it wasn’t the one thing he was trying to hide. (As in, Danny has a lingerie fetish.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He’d heard most of the girls, and a fair share amount of the men too, whispering around, and he didn’t need the pantomimed hand gestures to know what they were talking about. Yes, his suits were a size too small, and yes he well fucking liked them that way. Ordered them that way, in fucking fact. It was the secret skinny guys had been using to appear anything but for ages, and they could just go shove it right up the fucking arse for all he cared. Fucking Christ, they were fucking strippers – how’d they fucking figure a couple pasties and spangled crotchless panties made them the fucking fashion police? 

And the thing was, no one knew the real situation half shit from Sunday anyway. Oh yeah, yeah, blame the suit – it’s all those fuckers nattered on about. And half the time, when he’d stood up to really lay into a cocksucker what come with half the fucking money, or had done a fair bit of walking, then yeah, alright, perhaps it was the fucking suit that had him jostling his jewels around. 

The other half of the time, well that was between himself and his own fucking preferences, thank you very much. Ladies’ thongs weren’t made for fucking comfort, least of all on a man, but he liked it and that’s the way he’d always been and you couldn’t argue with a fucking fetish right? Danny had never exactly been an ascetic used to denying himself anyway, so this kink in his chain, it didn’t really fucking bother. 

Well alright, maybe it did, a tiny bit – what fucking man who could call himself a fucking man wore skivvies like a woman a few days out of the week? He wasn’t a poofter, not that he would have fucking much cared, and in a way, it made it all worse. It just meant he was some kind of fucking freak, with no fucking excuse. 

So he kept quiet about it, and let them make fun of the suit. Real fucking funny.

It would have stayed that way too, if it hadn’t been for the fucking fuckwits at the postal service and her fucking smiling. _Her_ , the one that lived a couple doors down in the fucking back-end flathouse he called home. Brunette, tiny thing, which depending on the day did right by his male ego, or made him feel even worse knowing that he was closer to fucking Tiny Tim over here than the men walking down the street. He’d see her coming home when he left for work in the late afternoon, and she was always fucking smiling, saying hello like bints in high heels and tweed should be saying hello to greasy fuckers like himself. 

She was pretty, and if she wanted to interrupt his dash down the stairs, he could very well get an eyeful for his trouble. Not that he could see much, mind, but every so often a regular pair was better than the hatchet-jobs he saw every night. Danny could have lived with this.

That was until she’d knocked on his door one Sunday, mid-afternoon and entirely too fucking early by his clock. He’d thrown open the door, already shouting about fuckers needing to pay up at the club and leave him to his shut-eye, but the wind had gone out of his sails pretty damn fast. 

She was standing just outside, hands behind her back. Blushing, for god knew fucking what. 

Running a hand through his hair, not yet greased back and every which way from sleep, he tried to look composed. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m Belle, I live a couple doors down from you?” She said it like a fucking question, like he hadn’t seen her go in and out for the past two years. 

Biting that back, he nodded; she didn’t owe him anything, and she’d at least always been polite. Contrary to popular opinion, he _could_ be civil. 

If anything his silence made her look more nervous, and he only just noticed she was fiddling with something behind her back. “Well, I was, um, checking my mail, and I got something that belonged to you.”

It was probably a porn magazine, and Danny could only roll his eyes. She, _Belle_ , saw a fucking naked woman in the mirror every day, and she couldn’t handle one on a cover? Blowing air out of his nose, he extended a hand. Might as well be nice, since she brought it over. “I’m sorry if it was something that fu…offended you. Thank you for returning it.”

Only when she pulled the item from behind her back, it wasn’t the girlie mag he’d expected. No it was two shiny silver packages, the name _Victoria’s Secret_ emblazoned on the label. 

The breath catching in his throat, Danny rubbed at the back of his neck. Fuck, but he could play it cool. No explanation necessary. Just take the fucking packages and send her home. 

And that was why he was surprised most of all when an explanation came tumbling out. “They’re not mine. They’re for me, but they’re uh, they’re not fucking _mine_.”

She raised an eyebrow, and that was when the first of those fucking _smiles_ twisted her lips. “Well I didn’t think they were…”

A chorus of _stupid, so fucking stupid_ shouting in his head, it was all he could do to keep from grabbing the packages and slamming the door in her face. Instead, quicker than he’d meant to, he snatched the flimsy packages and forced himself to smile. 

“Oh, and one more thing,” his smile fell as hers grew a little wider, and was she fucking _laughing_ at him, “this isn’t the first time it’s happened. The post keeps delivering them to me and I keep sending them back with a forwarding address to you. I just figured that if they were going to keep doing it, this was easier.”

One corner of his brain franticly tried to remember how many times he’d ordered from them, since he couldn’t fucking well walk into the store, and it was with a sinking feeling that he realized it was too fucking many to count. He liked colors, you could fucking very well see it in his suit array, and the textures as they cupped his balls, and it was his one major splurge and everyone else could fucking go to hell –

Showing a grin that was more a baring of teeth, he forced out, “Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me,” and slammed the door. 

He took out his rage on the postal service the next day, an exceptionally long phone call he was sure they’d stopped recording for quality control about halfway in. There was no fucking way that wouldn’t have solved the issue, and when Danny found himself back online and briefly wavered on whether to send it to the club, he still put in his home address. 

Two weeks later, there was another knock at his door. 

He threw it wide, already knowing in his gut who it was. 

“Me again,” she said, and she looked far less nervous this time. 

His collar felt like it was too hot, and if he told himself it was solely because of rage, he let himself believe it. Of course it would be the fucking gorgeous woman, posh and clean and smelling so nice, giving him the thing he would die if anyone knew about. Of fucking course, because he’d been fantasizing about it for the past two weeks, unable to decide if he preferred her humiliating him for it or her liking it or – that was fucking stupid, because it wasn’t going to happen. 

“Let me fucking guess. Come to return another package?”

“That’s right.” She handed it over, shifting foot to foot in her four inch heels. “And listen…”

About to slam the door in her face again, something in him stopped the motion. But he could at any second, he reminded himself. “What?”

“Whatever you do is your business. I’m not judging you, so you can stop looking so hunted.”

“Well of course you’re not fucking judging me,” he almost screeched, feeling the pent-up frustration and helplessness surging upwards, “because I’ve got nothing to fucking hide! So you can just go back to your posh little fucking life working wherever the fuck you do, and stay _out_ of my business.”

Unwilling to see the hurt look on her face, Danny slammed the door and stomped back into his bedroom. She should know better than to rain down fucking pity like Motherfucking Theresa, and he’d fumed quietly, pacing until the press of his hard cock against the scrap of cloth he hated and needed the most grew too fucking difficult to bear. 


	2. In the Post

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny can’t stop thinking about Belle returning his packages (with the guilty pleasures they contained), and he has no one to blame but himself for giving himself away. It opens new doors.

He didn’t see her for weeks after that, and while it wasn’t like they were especially fucking close, he did notice the lack of her – no more smiles, no more hellos in the hallway, no more questions about his day. If he tended to ignore or snipe at the last, well it was still fucking nice every once in a while to be asked. But it was better this way, since it meant no more fucking awkward knocks with her blushing or grinning or raining fucking pity like fucking fairy dust, and fuck him if he knew which was worse, while she handed over his silver packages too flimsy to be anything but what they contained.

And like always, it was only him what had managed to fuck things up for himself.

The first time, he could have told her about the club. Blamed it on that, what with finding new merchandise for the staff. Or hell, gifts for some pretend lover. Didn’t matter that the strippers wore cheap shit and he hadn’t had a woman by in ages, he could have said either – he could have said fucking nothing, Jesus Christ. But no, no he had to go on the defensive and all but confirm the situation.

He should buy a fucking neon sign and hang it above his front door, start charging fifteen quid to see the freak in the woman’s panties. Might even make him some money that way, and if he’d found out anything in life, money could go a long way to soothing a stung pride. He’d be no better than the fuckers at some kink club then.

The line of thought would have him recoiling like he’d been burned, and half the time a shot glass found itself hurtling towards a wall; he didn’t touch those fantasies with a fifty fucking foot pole, and the times that he did, well shit tended to break. As far as he was concerned, they weren’t even fucking his, only renting space in his head for some reason.

They belonged to some other sick fuck.

Not him, not Danny Devine, Mr. Always Paid and Always Laid. All eyes were on him, and he was the one fucking giving the orders, calling the shots, not the other way around. He was the one who did the fucking.

And in business, yeah, that might have been fucking true. But elsewhere?

Whether at the club, balancing his books until three am, or out on collection chasing down worthless fuckers who belonged shot in the gutter if he’d wanted to be honest, he couldn’t get it out of his head. He’d be forty-four next spring, and he’d known pretty fucking early in life that he preferred a bit of lace, but he’d put up a big fucking wall real fucking quick against including anyone else. No one else need apply, thank you very much. Yet in the span of a grand total of twenty minutes she’d opened up the floodgates and smashed into the barrier, and he couldn’t tell if he wanted to scream at her or fall at her feet.

Fantasies he’d never allowed to materialize before kept him up at night, and if he gave even half a fuck, he’d probably have to acknowledge how fucking unhealthy it was to be thinking about a woman who for all intents and purposes was a total fucking stranger. It didn’t stop him from pumping at his cock though, lying on his side like he could turn away from the thoughts in his head.

In some, she continued to smile until he dropped his trousers, and then she’d laugh, really fucking laugh at the lace and print some part of him had thought was fucking nice when he’d bought it. And then she might tell others, and they’d all know, and the rise of anger would be quashed beneath the sweet burn of shame as cum spurted over his fingers, imagining what a man he’d look like then – uneducated, Irish, a fucking man unworthy of the name.

In others, quieter ones that tended to come just as he was about to fall asleep, she’d tell him which pair to wear, maybe help him pick them out. It might be nice to tell someone, some part of him whispered, and for it to not be a big fucking deal.

He thought about her smiling most of all, but not the cruel smile he’d made up in his head nor the knowing one she’d shown at his door. No, this one brimmed with desire as her eyes burned in kind, and the black satin he’d picked out to wear just for her – it wasn’t disgusting, or freakish, or made him less of a man, it was, it was…

He’d never told any of the women he’d taken to bed anything fucking close to what he confessed to her in his head, not that there were many women he wasn’t fucking paying for a roll in the hay. Sex wasn’t an acceptable substitute for money, but when he fucking wanted it, he was fucking willing to pay for it. In fact he couldn’t remember the last time the woman in his bed had been more than a cleaned-up prostitute, and even that occurrence wasn’t fucking regular. He ran a legitimate, demanding business and loan sharked on the side, and most days he looked forward more to the insides of his eyelids and the bottom of his shot glass than another pussy. Pretty fucking sad, but there it was.

Day after day passed, and if sometimes he thought he saw the flash of a hounds-tooth skirt or a camel colored blouse out of the corner of his eye, it never amounted to much.

And then, about a month after he’d last seen her, there she was. He was rifling through the mail in his box just inside the building’s second door, passing by the spread-eagled blonde on the cover of a magazine where once he might have paused to look. Bills, bills, people asking for money both legitimate and illegitimate – more of the same he dealt with every day.

It wasn’t until the figure appeared on his left, almost bumping shoulders as a key sank into the lock on the box next to his, that he snapped to attention. Opening his mouth to remind the fucker to mind their own fucking space, it hung open at seeing who stood there.

“Afternoon, Mr. Devine,” she chirped, off-hand and distracted by her box, extracting one of the thickest wads of envelopes he’d ever seen fit into one of these boxes. Christ knew how the postman had gotten it all in there.

Anger, long a familiar emotion, bloomed hot and ready inside his chest, bubbling upwards like magma leaving the crust. It beat feeling fucking happy to see her again. “And where the fuck have you been?”

Her eyes snapped to his from where she’d been reading the envelopes. A delicately shaped eyebrow arched upwards. “Excuse me?”

“Almost every day for two fucking years you’ve said hello, and now it’s been, what, a month, where I got nothing? No hello, no wave, no oh how do you do, Mr. Devine, how was your lousy fucking day?” She only gaped at him, and, unable to stop himself no matter how his brain screamed at him to shut up and leave, he put the nail in the coffin with, “What ever happened to the no fucking judging, eh Belle?”

If at first she’d been too stunned to properly react, Danny saw the moment the corner of her mouth quirked upwards in a smile. Horror, shame, and the hot gush of something like desire pooled low in his belly, and he would’ve gladly slammed his head against the wall rather than hear the amusement in her voice when she asked, “So how do you do, Mr. Devine?”

“Good,” he sputtered, his brain having shut down, “Fucking… good.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” She tipped her box door closed with a finger, relocking it with a click before turning back to him. Her eyes were bluer than he remembered. “Whatever happened to the no judging is that I’ve been visiting friends in America for the past month. Hence,” and here she lifted the letters below his nose, “all of these.”

“Are you saying I’m stupid?”

Swallowing, he straightened as much as he could, grappling for every inch he could get on her. The urge to adjust himself was there, but he resisted. She would know exactly fucking why – she’d delivered the pair he had on, as it turned out.

“Not at all,” and here she had the gall to look surprised, as if her words from before hadn’t suggested exactly what he’d said, “merely a… preoccupied man, Mr. Devine.”

Scoffing, he fiddled with the mail in his hands and muttered, “Cut it with the Mr. Devine crap, it’s fucking Danny. And have a fan-fucking-tastic day.”

He made to brush past her and head up the stairs just beyond where he could lick his wounds in peace, but she caught his arm. The touch almost burned.

“I’m sorry, it was rude of me to suggest you were an idiot,” Belle said, as if she had been the one swearing and making accusations. “Let me make it up to you. Maybe you’d like to come over some time for tea?”

Later, he’d figure she was probably a gorgon with those blue, blue eyes, turning his body and mind to stone.

But at the moment, he could only nod.


	3. Delivery Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny finally has tea with Belle, and things only get worse when the post screws up again. Only this time, his mail isn’t delivered to her.

There were things Danny Devine just fucking didn’t do. Blokes and skip on taxes were two of them, but all crassness aside, he had two – no, wait, three – personal laws he lived by that had served him pretty fucking well over the years.

The first was that Danny didn’t wear shorts in public. Didn’t matter how fucking hot it was, the pavement could be fucking bubbling for all he fucking cared. It was trousers and trousers only, no matter the cut or style as long as they reached at least his ankles.

The second was that after he’d gotten a close-up view of a stripper’s tits when she’d come to audition for a job, he tended to stay holed up in his office and never actually see her perform. He was no fucking prude, none of that, it was that his time was fucking valuable and every minute he spent staring at a bint’s tits he hemorrhaged money out the fucking arse. That, and after seeing a redhead dancing with a sheer pair of blue panties clinging to her ass what were a fucking twin to the kind he had on underneath, had made him almost retch into the nearest garbage can. 

His line of business paid, and it paid well, but sometimes he felt like a cow working in a fucking slaughterhouse. They’d all turn on him in a minute if they knew.

And the third rule, this one was new, put into effect yesterday as a matter of fucking fact. It was pretty fucking plain, put in a way even he should have been able to understand. Don’t fucking take tea with beautiful women, especially when you’d spent that morning fucking fisting at your cock to thoughts of her. 

She’d invited him over but she hadn’t specified exactly when, and it was the perfect grey area for a weasel fucker like himself to hide in. If they never decided on a time, he got to keep the frankly warm feeling of knowing he’d been invited without the frigid gust of terror that came with the thought of actually going through it. Danny Devine wasn’t a coward, and on a good day, he liked to think he was made of determination like Superman was made of fucking steel. He’d pursue what he was owed to the depths of hell and back, through knife fights and gun fights and whatever the fuck could be thrown at him – but meeting with Belle, making it fucking real, that was a little outside his purview.

So for two whole weeks they stayed in that happy medium, well, happy for Danny as he tried to ignore the way her face brightened up a bit whenever they met in the hallway. He’d been met with rolled eyes, looks of dread, stoic but ultimately un-fucking-necessary stone faces, but he’d never imagined a day where someone could look even the tiniest bit forward to seeing him.

Made him fucking nervous, it did. Raised his hopes to an unacceptable degree, and if there was ever a reason to stay the fuck away, that was it.

Only Danny never could follow his own advice when it didn’t apply to matters of money, and his third rule was shattered with the rap rap rap of knuckles on wood one Tuesday afternoon. Tuesday was a slow day at the club and didn’t need his presence until at least eight, and he’d been organizing business receipts since he’d crawled out of bed at noon. Part of him screamed to ignore the door, stay quiet and allow the visitor to go away on their own. The part that was apparently fucking stupid had him stepping away from his laptop, a hand reaching down to settle himself more comfortably as the purple cotton shifted around, and opening the door before he could think it through for even half a second.

There she stood, smiling and with hands full like always. Only this time it wasn’t with packages, or at least not the kind he’d been receiving from her recently.

“I know we’ve both been busy,” Belle began, and fuck if she didn’t look like fucking class in that dark blue dress, “but I just got out of work and I could really use a cup of tea. Want to join me? I have everything here.”

She held out the boxes of tea bags as if he couldn’t see for himself, along with a tin he had to assume contained more of the same in some form or another. His brain shouted at him to shrug her off, make up some excuse about being late for the club as if he was really going to fucking waltz into the place dressed in an old pair of jeans and a fucking sleep shirt. His mouth, however, didn’t seem to get the message.

“Alright, come on in. Mind the fucking mess.”

If anything, she seemed relieved as he stepped aside and allowed her to enter, gingerly tiptoeing over the bills and receipts he’d left in piles on the rug. Her heels were missing today, replaced by a pair of flats that hardly had her coming up to his chin.

The tea boxes settled onto the counter in his small galley kitchen, after she’d moved aside some of the dishes he’d been meaning to do from breakfast. Stuck-on eggs and toast crumbs made a piss poor impression, but as far as he was concerned, she’d stepped into all this herself and could deal with the consequences.

Unsure what to do with himself exactly, he leaned against the doorway to the kitchen. She seemed to be looking around for something.

“Do you have a kettle?”

“What kind of fucking question is that? Cabinet to your right.” He was fucking Irish, living in London. Of course he had a fucking kettle.

She extracted the electric kettle and popped it open, peering inside for a moment.

“It’s clean,” he bit out, for some reason a little hurt that she’d not even bothered trying to hide looking. Yes, he was a bachelor, and yes, there were dishes everywhere, but he could fucking take care of his things like an adult, thank you.

She flushed at that, a sheepish smile twisting her lips. “Sorry, it’s a habit. My dad used to heat up coffee in it and I always used to have to check.”

Watching as she filled up the compartment from the tap, he was as surprised as she to find himself asking, “Does he still live in Australia?”

“No, actually. A little town in Maine, in America.” She turned off the faucet, closing the top of the kettle and plugging it in. “We moved there from Sydney when I was starting high school.”

He nodded, vaguely certain that Maine was somewhere in the northern United States. He’d never crossed the pond before, and though he’d exceled at numbers and figures, geography was not his strong suit.

“And then you came here?”

“For college, and found a job once I finished. Stayed ever since.”

A little surprised by how well, normal the conversation was, he felt his guard relax the tiniest bit against his will. That yield put him on high alert though, trying to strengthen his defenses before she could launch a full on attack to knock them down. No doubt she was just trying to get him comfortable before she brought up the topic he’d been dreading.

When he didn’t reply, too stuck in his thoughts and doubts, she leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. The kettle bubbled pleasantly behind her. “You know, this is probably the quietest I’ve ever seen you.”

“Well it’s not like you’ve seen me too fucking often, now is it,” he snapped, ignoring the stab of regret at the sudden spasm of pain across her features.

“No, I suppose I haven’t,” she said, her tone thoughtful, and fucking blindsided him with, “But I wouldn’t mind changing that.”

As his mouth fell open, he was saved from answering by a high-pitched whistle, slicing through the air in the small space. She turned down the heat, and gestured to the boxes she’d brought on the counter to her right. “I have Earl Grey, Chai, and an assortment box with a bunch of flavors, if you want to see.”

Already knowing he’d go for the Earl Grey, Danny took the opportunity to mindlessly rifle through the assortment as an excuse to do something with his hands. He could feel her watching him, and the fact that it was fucking putting him on edge meant he strived to stand a little straighter. Maybe it’d be fucking better to just get it out in the open, a voice whispered, so he wasn’t fucking waiting for it like a syringe to pierce the skin.

Unable to prolong the search any longer, he shrugged, extracting an Earl Grey from the box and sliding it her way. “I’ll stick with the classics,” he said, puffing out his chest like it helped him feel any better, “and leave the frilly fucking teas to you.”

She laughed bemusedly at that, reaching for a yellow packet from the mess of the assortment box. Some kind of oolong, he thought. “How is oolong a frilly fucking tea? Tea is tea.”

He was nearest the cabinet where he kept the mugs, and as he handed her two, some part of him was amused at the way she jokingly mimicked his accent. She moved her mouth too much to do it properly, but he kept that comment to himself.

“It’s not when it’s fucking yellow, or green. Tea should be black.”

“Tea should be whatever it’s meant to be,” she replied, tearing open the bags and plopping one in each mug. Belle had this wry little smile on her face that made him think she wasn’t just talking about a drink. “Just because it’s not the color that everyone first thinks of doesn’t mean it’s any less a type of tea. Black tea may have a different character than green, but that doesn’t mean one is better than the other. And frankly,” here she poured the water, flashing a quick glance to the time on his microwave, “the fact that tea comes in such variety is pretty thrilling.”

He accepted his mug, idly dunking the bag and watching as the water bloomed black. If he’d been going for sarcasm, it felt hollow and all too much like a smokescreen. “So you fucking work at a tea store, or what?”

Her laugh was pleasant, he thought, treading the line between a giggle and a fuller sound. It rang out now, accompanied by a shake of her head. “No, though I wish. I work at a branch of the Archives.”

He made a noncommittal noise, not quite sure what to say without coming across as an idiot. The last time he’d stepped foot in a library had been years ago. Thankfully the tea had steeped long enough, so he retracted the bag and tossed it in the trash, raising the mug to his lips.

Hers still had a few minutes to go, and she cocked her head as she appraised him. “So do you always take your work home with you?”

Thinking of the stacks of bills scattered around his living room, Danny could only shrug. He’d been checking numbers against original contracts for the past hour. “When fuckers are charging me more than originally agreed for my orders, yeah.”

“So you own your business. That’s exciting.”

Wincing a little, he hid himself behind his tea. “I don’t know if running The Parrot Club counts as exciting. A fucking headache, maybe.”

Apparently satisfied with the color of her tea, she pulled out the bag and dropped it into the rubbish bin. “That’s a… night club? Bar?”

“Strip club.” Beat fucking saying titty bar, anyway.

If he’d thought maybe he would shock her, the expression that twisted her face wasn’t it. He couldn’t quite decide if it was outright confusion or that look one got when one hadn’t heard right. “Well that’s… not what I was expecting, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Putting down his mug, he squared off to face to her. “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just saying, things make a little more sense now.”

As if he’d been looking for an excuse all along, he felt something inside his chest ignite. When he was enraged, he felt in control, no longer vulnerable. “What things?”

“Your habit of lashing out, for one,” she pointed out diplomatically, as if it was the easiest thing in the world to see inside his head, “and two, being bombarded day in and day out by this societal construct of - “

Although he’d been ready to cut her off himself, needing to stop the way her knife sliced through his armor like it was butter, the pounding on the door did it for him. He stalked away from the kitchen, not even bothering to check if she was following or still haunted the area by his stove.

Roughly grabbing the handle, he threw open the door and practically snarled, “What do you fucking want? I don’t have time for a fucking chitchat.”

The man on the other side was a face he’d only seen a few times before, and if he remembered correctly, the black-haired fucker lived in the apartment directly beneath his. His mailbox read Gaston, and that was the only thing he fucking knew about the guy. A hulking brute, his neck was as thick as Danny’s thigh and he rose head and shoulders above him.

Danny had barely a second to think before something was shoved into his chest. As he looked down and got a good look at the red material, he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach as terror flooded in. He’d bought the lingerie on backorder almost two months ago, double checking and triple checking his address and spelling it out in a clearer way he hoped the carrier would not have been able to fucking screw up.

He’d thought having Belle receive them had been bad.

No.

This, watching as the guy’s face went from ticked off at having to return the panties to genuinely disgusted at seeing the expressions Danny was too unsettled by Belle’s analysis to completely hide – this was far, far fucking worse.

“Are these yours?” His lips pulled back across his teeth, baring them in a way that screamed revulsion.

While Danny would normally be hissing and spitting by now, he couldn’t seem to shake the ice he felt like he’d been doused in. This wasn’t fucking happening. Not after so long of keeping it a secret, of imagining but never having to face the repugnance pouring off the other man in waves in a way that made him want to throw up on his shoes. Danny had had guns pulled on him before, and it hadn’t even felt like this.

If he tried, he was sure he would be able to see the blinking of that neon sign above his door.

Fifteen quid to see the freak.

Clinging to the scrap of lace, Danny opened his mouth and fought for breath, his normal bluster out of reach. “No, they’re not mine, they, they…”

This was it. This was the end of his pride. 

“Oh Danny, you really shouldn’t have,” came Belle’s voice to his right, a half a second before he felt soft lips press against his cheek. The sensation had him reeling inside, and if his feet hadn’t been rooted to the floor, he might have stumbled.

She gently extracted the pair of panties from his grip, holding them up and gushing over how much she loved the color. He heard her as if from a long way away, before he finally managed to shake himself free of his silence.

“They were supposed to be a surprise,” he replied weakly, and then, with a bit more strength, added, “for our anniversary.”

“I love them anyway, surprise or no.” This time he was able to enjoy the kiss she placed on his cheek, and he clung to its memory in the whirlwind of emotions tearing up the inside of his head.

As if remembering that the fucking brute was still there, shocked into dumb silence, Belle turned to face him. “Thank you so much for bringing these by. The mail service in this building is terrible, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, right, of course.” Shock still gripped his visage, but Gaston had receded and seemed smaller than he had before. Backing away down the hallway, he managed, “Yeah, so, uh, anyway, happy anniversary.”

Waving goodbye with a huge smile plastered on her face, Belle called after him, “Thanks!”

Without even being conscious of it, he closed and locked the door after they’d stepped back inside. Danny couldn’t remember the last time words had failed him for such a long stretch of time, but for once he was their bitch instead of the other way around.

She was still holding the panties, a bright red against the pale milk of her flesh, and, reaching for his hand, pressed them into his palm. Like he’d expected, a smile still graced her mouth, but it wasn’t mocking, or even sly. Her fingertips whispered over his skin as she retracted her hand.

“Nice choice on the color.”

He could barely raise his eyes from the garment in his grasp. “Thank you.”

Although he expected her to pepper him with questions, or at the very least leave with an excuse, she did neither. Belle merely walked back to the kitchen, and when he didn’t follow after a moment or two, called back, “Aren’t you coming? Your tea is getting cold.”

They chatted some more, about what he could barely remember, his muscles still twitchy with leftover current and his mind reeling from one place to another without making sense. It was with relief and confusion and a hundred other emotions that he saw her out the door thirty minutes later, too distracted to really keep up a conversation with his thoughts as jumbled as they were.

He toyed with staying in that night, but decided that business couldn’t afford to be ignored just because he’d gotten his panties in a figurative twist, and he found himself at The Parrot Club by half past nine.

Work had moved sluggishly, his mind in a fog, and by eleven he was breaking another one of his fucking rules.

He stood off to the side, somewhere discrete as the darkness tended to cloak everyone it contained. The bottle blonde on stage was pushing the scrap of lace off her hips, the men eagerly proffering bills in her direction hooting and hollering as more was revealed. Once a night they did bare-all shows, pretty fucking popular and worth the price hike in taxes he’d had to pay to have the club’s regulatory status changed. Not that that meant a thing to the woman on stage, the pair slipping past her knees to be kicked high into the air by a pointed, stiletto-clad foot.

Although so much bare skin was on display, he found his gaze sliding to the cast off panties. Surrounded by men fucking salivating over the girl undulating on the stage, he ended up staring at the fucking piece of lace she’d thrown to the side and wondering what Belle wore, not that he hadn’t thought about it before. But this time, his thoughts continued down that path, wondering what it would be like to be told to wear her things, still wet and slippery from her juices. Or even, if she liked them well enough, ask her to wear his things? The thought made him shiver, his skin feeling hot and tight as his cock began to thicken. 

He remembered her kisses, chaste and quick and somehow more fucking erotic than anything he’d had before.

Ducking back into his office, he decided to leave early. He wanted to get some sleep, because he had tea with her again tomorrow.


	4. Personally, By Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Belle has to cancel their tea for that day, Danny turns to his whiskey. But when she comes back late at night, it’s with quite the surprise. She also lets slip the start of something she wishes she hadn’t.

Not only was today the day after he’d had one of the biggest scares of his life, today was a Wednesday, the fifteenth of the month.

For convenience’ sake, most loans he generated had to be repaid by the fifteenth – it saved him the fucking hassle of memorizing a thousand dates and simplified his collection process. Still a little off from the events with Gaston, he’d hoped to fucking God that the payments that were due that day would come in without a trail of fucking excuses, or worse yet, a no-show. With any luck, they’d come slinking in, handing over their paltry cash with a Here’s your money, with interest, Mr. Devine, have a fucking terrible day and I hope to God I never see you again. It was the best case scenario, really, and holding a thick wad of bills in his hand was about as fucking satisfying as holding his own prick some days.

This, however, was not one of those days.

And, as it fucking turned out, this was also not a day where the money came in on time.

His van thundered up and down the streets of London for seven, count ’em, seven hours, from the moment he’d left the apartment at ten in the morning to just before the early winter sun was about to set. He’d screeched and hollered, physically threatening more than a few fuckers and verbally threatening all of them to a man. Of the twenty thousand pound he was supposed to pull in today, he’d made roughly half. The other half belonged to fuckers what had been clever in their hiding or plain old had faced him without a fucking cent.

He’d try one more time in two days, as per protocol, and then those fuckers would be receiving a visit from a couple guys on his payroll whose arms were practically as thick as his waist. The money tended to come in fucking fast after that, but it was always preferable to not let it get to that point.

Over the course of the day, he’d been sworn at fifty-seven times, been hung up on sixteen different counts, been offered exactly eleven cups of tea, seven hypothetical new deals, the services of three prostitutes, and one Reuben sandwich with chips.

Out of everything he’d been offered, the sandwich was the only one he’d accepted from a would-be small-time chef financing his little bistro with his fucking money, in exchange for a two day extension on one of his loan installments. While favors and reprieves weren’t normally in his fucking repertoire, he’d been fucking hungry after a day spent goose-chasing around the city and the fucker what had offered the meal hadn’t had the money today anyway, so he might as well get something out of it.

As he pulled into the cramped lot at the back of his apartment building, all he could do was look forward to a drink and to seeing Belle again. They’d decided on tea, and while she hadn’t given a time again, he figured he could relax with some whisky until she dropped by. Killing the engine, he jumped out of the van and made to right his jewels almost by habit. This was one of those times the suit, a dark green mossy number, was partly to blame.

Letting himself in the back door, he charged up the stairs, sparing the second floor where his friend the fucking brute lived a scathing glance. He and Belle, along with a couple of other tenants, were up on the third in the fairly squat, old building, the landings no less dark for having more access to limited sunlight.

He fished out his keys again the moment he touched the top stair, turning the quick corner to the little wing dominated by himself and Belle.

She was waiting for him just outside his door, and as surprise gripped his features relief bloomed on hers.

“Thank God, I caught you,” she began, fumbling with what looked to be an earring. What could only be described as a little black dress clung to her curves and highlighted the rise of her breasts; the sight stopped him dead. “I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to cancel on tonight. My best friend’s boyfriend left her, and we’re doing dinner and a girl’s night out so she doesn’t snap.”

No stranger to the disappointment in his belly, Danny walled up the tirade that wanted to be let loose. Wasn’t her fault his day had been fucking shite, and if her friend’s loser boyfriend had to go and bollocks things up for everyone involved, well then his argument was with that fucker.

The key he’d fumbled for jammed into the lock, and he rambled, “Great idea, great idea – and while you’re fucking out, stop by the fucker’s house and shove a fist up his arse, yeah? Better yet, make it two.”

Although his eyes were glued to the handle that wouldn’t seem to open, her laugh chimed in his ears. Well at least one of them was amused. A bit baffled, she said, “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks. We’ll save it for last.”

Wrenching the key from the door, he breathed in and out through his nose, trying not to snap himself. Karma could be a bitch when you spent the day making people’s lives hell. “It’s funny – you seem to think that was a fucking joke.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“Not particularly.” Giving up on the lock, he turned to face her, and he could only imagine what he must look like. Red-faced and sweaty, a jittery scrawny fucker what was fucking flustered by not being able to take tea like a little fucking dog. Next he’d be asking to curl up in her lap as she fucking petted his hair, and just to make matters fucking worse, he’d probably be wearing his panties too. Pretty fucking pathetic.

The amusement on her visage softened into concern, and Belle reached out to gently touch his shoulder. “You alright?”

He didn’t need fucking concern from her – didn’t fucking deserve it, as a matter of fact, and he’d be the first person to admit that. His eyes fell to his keys, and he could have kicked himself to see he was using the wrong fucking key all along. Pinching the right key tightly, he shoved it into the lock and felt some measure of relief when it turned.

“I’m right as fucking rain. Enjoy your fucking night on the town, Belle.”

Flashing what might have been a smile, he wasn’t sure, he closed the door after a half-hearted wave. Ten minutes later, stripping off his suit jacket and shoes, he felt fucking rotten for closing it in her face, but at least he hadn’t slammed it. And he’d said goodbye, sort of, with a smile, sort of.

It might have been only six, but it wasn’t too fucking early to crack open a bottle of Jameson and pour himself a tumbler on the rocks. Some loan days he started earlier, so this was fucking commendable in his book. Fuckers acted like he enjoyed chasing them down – and yeah, he made the most of it and derived a level of satisfaction by unloading his frustration onto them, but really, if it all could just be avoided in the fucking first place, that would be just fine by him.

Danny should have known better than to accept an invitation for tea on the fifteenth. His emotions swung wildly enough as it was without the chance of her canceling on him, no matter it wasn’t her fault.

He had powered through three tumblers by the time he went into work around eight, not that it was really fucking necessary given that it was a Wednesday, but it beat sitting around his place. As it was, he’d had three more fuckers come in – none of whom what had the money, and it soured his mood even further.

By the time he left at one am, he’d had another three glasses, and if while at the club he’d begun to sober up, these had knocked him right back off his horse again. Always good on his feet, even when nearing drunk, Danny caught a cab home. He had enough illegal operations going on that he didn’t need to be caught for something as fucking stupid as drunk driving, thereby endangering his entire fucking enterprise and risking his life in the process. His van would keep at the club until morning.

Around 11 he’d remembered that today was also his least favorite day for another reason – it was laundry day. His suits were dry-cleaned, but he had to fucking plan doing his whites with common sense; he couldn’t be taking them down into the basement when someone might fucking catch a glimpse, now could he?

Two am every third Wednesday, which was about when he ran out, had won the contest of being the time with the least people, and as he stumbled into his apartment and checked his drawer to find it empty, it seemed like today would be another one.

He got the basket down to the basement with little difficulty, suit rumpled and untucked, with his bottle of Jameson resting on the top of the pile. It took about an hour and a half all told, so while the washing machine and dryer churned and hummed behind him, he sat against the cool metal and sipped straight from the bottle. If he’d had the fucking foresight, Danny would have brought a water bottle down too, but he wasn’t going to fucking leave his skivvies where anyone could come and take a peek in order to go grab one.

It was nearing three in the morning when they finished, and not a soul haunted the landings. He half-carried, half-dragged the basket up the stairs, a sizeable dent missing from the Jameson sloshing around on top. He’d held off sipping the last forty-five minutes or so, and while he was pretty fucking tipsy, his liver was doing an admirable job at keeping him from pushing into fully drunk territory.

He carried the basket to his door and let it plop down next to it, pausing to try to find the right key. They weren’t labeled or anything, and it was always a fucking bitch having to try to read the locksmith company on the handle or judge from the teeth which one was fucking right.

The reminder of earlier that afternoon had his ears burning, and no doubt he’d looked like a fucking idiot fumbling with his keys. Danny fancied himself as rather fucking smart, smarter than his teachers and the fuckers what had denied him uni had given him credit, but her pretty face and a kind word could send him off his feet with no fucking trouble at all.

Muttering under his breath, he’d just found the right key when his hands were arrested by a voice to his right.

“Hey, I hadn’t expected you to be around. Isn’t it really late?”

Her hair was down now, he saw, no longer pinned up and back, and she was carrying her heels and a bag in her hand which explained why he hadn’t heard the telltale warning clicks on the tile. His brain struggled to manage a reply, and seemingly as one, their eyes fell to the basket near his feet. While on the way down he’d stuffed towels around and over his things, he hadn’t bothered for the way up, and it looked like a fucking mountain of rainbows and lace. A black satin number was right on top.

Seeing one pair, well she’d saved his ass on that one, but seeing all of them…

Danny wished he had averted his eyes just a fraction of a second sooner, so he didn’t have to see the way her brows furrowed and her mouth opened in a silent oh. Fucking Christ, yes, it was worse than she’d thought, he knew, and he didn’t have to see it to imagine the way her lip was probably curling. Belle could shrug off the packages and pretend to be as accepting as she wanted, but there was no hiding in the end.

He hadn’t known it was possible to feel turned on and sick at the same time, but apparently it was.

“There it is. There’s the disgust.” He inserted the key into his lock, laughing bitterly. “Should have fucking known, really.”

“What? No.” She walked closer, a sight he caught from the corner of his eye. She stopped close, too fucking close. “Don’t be fucking ridiculous, Danny. Honestly, I just didn’t expect you to favor thongs so much, since they’re not even fucking comfortable on me.”

The fact that she was cursing, and not even in mockery of him, sent a thrill down his spine, but it fizzled against the feelings in his stomach. As much as he fantasized about her laughing at him, it was always with the secret hope he barely admitted to himself that she might not mean it, that the disgust might not be genuine.

He made a noncommittal noise, desperately wanting to believe her but knowing luck didn’t fucking work that way. As he bent to grab his basket, he figured that at least she was being nice about it either way.

He didn’t do more than grab the handles before she grabbed his arm, tugging him to straighten and face her. Her breath puffed against his lips she was so close, a light fruity scent mixing with the trace of alcohol buffeting his nose.

“Listen,” she whispered, holding his gaze even as she had to look upwards, “I know you expect everyone to be appalled, or at the very least, not to understand. I know what it’s like to be there. But I don’t care about it, in fact, I more than don’t care, I –”

Cutting herself off with a wince, she released his arm to fumble with the plastic bag on her arm. She extracted something from it and handed it to him – a magazine? No, a catalog, the words Frankly Darling emblazoned across the top. A model in a sheer negligee and dark blue panties spanned the cover, and the fleeting thought of how both might feel on him flitted through his mind.

“Look, I got this from Ruby. They have everything you could ever want, and I really like their things.” He didn’t even know where to begin, merely stared at her as she added, “I’m a big fan of pages eight to twelve. They have boyshorts and briefs, still pretty and lacy, but they might be more comfortable.”

Sighing, Belle stepped away, and he could see the dark circles under her eyes and the way she fought to keep them open. “I’m exhausted, Danny, and I’m going to bed. Just… stop worrying, alright?”

He nodded, whispering his thanks and wondering how the sick feeling in his stomach had transmuted to desire so fucking seamlessly. It hummed in his blood, and his button-up began to feel too hot, too tight against rapidly sensitizing skin.

Clinging to the catalog like it was the fucking bible and about to wish her goodnight, Belle surprised him by backtracking a couple steps from her door.

“One more thing,” she said, and tossed the bag that had been on her arm towards him. He caught it, barely, his brain and body not functioning well together. “Wear them.”

With that one last comment, she strolled to her door, letting herself in with a farewell wave of her hand. The door clicked behind her, and his gaze fell to the unmarked plastic bag in his arms. Pinning the catalog carefully between elbow and ribs, he reached inside and pulled out its contents.

A pair of bright blue bikini panties, made entirely of lace and soft as down to the touch, sat in his palm. They still had the tag on them, and his head reeled at the thought of her standing in the store and picking them out for him, thinking of him even as she was out with her friend.

Picking up his basket, his pants shifted uncomfortably against his growing erection, and he fought his way into his apartment. Door closed and locked, he sagged against it as a shuddering wave of arousal washed through him at the memory of her command.

Wear them.


	5. Return to Sender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unable to get her words out of his head, Danny receives a package for Belle this time around. Belle’s friends are a difficult to please bunch.

The morning’s sun didn’t bother knocking at his window so much as it ploughed right fucking through the open blinds, piercing his closed eyelids at eight am and rousing him from the hazy not-sleep of the hungover. Feeling like a fine layer of sawdust sat behind his teeth, it tasted like something had curled up and died in his mouth. His head was full of hammers as his frontal lobe tried to knock out a wall, namely the front part of his fucking skull. Dimly he remembered the whisky he’d used to drown the frustration of collection day, and his symptoms were a reminder that his metabolism couldn’t take as much alcohol as it used to.

What had it been? Three shots at home, three shots at the club, maybe two or three sitting against the washer, and then –

Belle.

Closing his eyes against the onslaught of light, he turned onto his side and drew his knees towards his chest. Their meeting in front of his door seemed unreal, no doubt helped by the fog that colored his memories – something straight out of his fantasies or a delicious wet dream. He’d had enough of those to begin questioning what was real and what wasn’t for the first few minutes after waking, sticky and sated and aching when he realized he wasn’t tucked into her side.

But no, if he cracked open one bloodshot eye, there was the catalog on his nightstand, resting next to the bottle of Advil he had to thank drunk-Danny for shrewdly providing. And if he turned his neck, there was the light blue bikini on his dresser, folded neatly in a way he didn’t bother with for anything else, keeping vigil over the heap of clothes on the floor what had once been his finely pressed green suit.

A groan tore from his throat, half-muffled by the pillow he was practically snogging in an attempt to escape the fucking sun. He needed water, never really having gotten the hang of dry-swallowing (and apparently drunk-Danny hadn’t fucking remembered that), and while it took a few minutes, he eventually mustered up the energy to crawl from the bed. He closed the blinds first and then stumbled to the bathroom, teetering on the point of retching but managing to keep it fucking together. A couple rinse-outs of his mouth with water did fuck-all for the taste, but it made him feel a bit more human. Full cup in one trembling hand, he dragged himself back to his bedroom.

He paused on the way past his dresser, toeing the moss-green pile in front of it. He didn’t know for certain, but he could have fucking sworn –

Danny groaned again when he saw it, already thinking of a dry-cleaner what owed him money and would keep his fucking trap shut. There it was, messy and white and more than he’d thought, the biggest fucking sign pointing to just how hot last night had made him. Hand in his pants like a fucking boy, he’d come on his knees with his cheek pressed against the door after he’d talked with her, prick rubbed half-raw as he swallowed fucking pathetic moans. He’d wondered feverishly which would please her more: if she’d hold a hand over his mouth to muffle him, or if she’d want to hear him beg. And would she – 

He hadn’t come in his pants in nearly two fucking decades, not like the fucking losers down at the club did every night, and he’d prided himself on having a measure of fucking control. The loss of it had probably cost him the trousers if the stain was any indication, not helped by the way he’d apparently stripped it all off to fall naked onto the covers.

But even now, head pounding with a ruined suit at his feet, he couldn’t say it hadn’t been fucking worth it. The desire he’d felt had made him dizzier than the alcohol had, weakening his knees and feeling like a blow to his belly, if said blow felt like fucking heaven. His fantasies were rich, sure, but they failed in comparison to the real fucking McCoy, and being with a hooker had never felt like this. 

Although his mind rebelled at the understanding of what that meant, his body knew, and his body wanted more.

Wear them.

He closed his eyes at the memory, knowing the only reason his cock wasn’t reacting was the headache ripping through his fucking skull. Without it, he’d be fucking bow-legged in minutes. Even seeing the suit, knowing it meant he’d lost control and loved every minute of it, was a turn-on.

It was too early to deal with this.

Leaving the suit where it lay, he made for the bed and the Advil that waited next to it. He took three with a gulp of water, bending his mind towards not bringing it right back up again. They said Advil on an empty stomach wasn’t good, but as Danny slithered back into bed, beneath the covers this time, and turned on his side, he figured he’d done far fucking worse things to his body the past few days.

When he awoke, the sun had shifted direction and no longer stole into his bedroom. A glance to the clock by his bedside revealed it to be almost three pm, and the headache was blissfully gone. He still felt fucking shaky mind, but he was on the fucking upswing. His arms and legs stretched in opposite directions as he fought to loosen twisted-up muscles, and without meaning to, his hand brushed against the stiff pages of the catalog on his nightstand.

A twitch of his fingers would be all it took to have it in his hands, and for a moment, was he ever fucking tempted. But the lingering malaise in his bones would color any enjoyment, and he didn’t fucking want anything to take away from the experience of going through it. He’d wait for the next day, when his head would be clearer, and it would be all the sweeter for having delayed.

With that thought in mind, he pushed himself up, pausing a moment to let the sudden wave of dizziness pass. He needed a fucking meal, something hot, greasy, and made of meat to ease some of the remaining ache. A sausage roll would do quite fucking nicely, but first, he figured, a shower was necessary.

After he’d taken one, which was more or less an excuse to stand there in the hot steam like a fucking dead man hanging, Danny threw on a pair of jeans and a Cranberries T-shirt he’d disavow all claim to if anyone saw, and headed out for a fucking sausage roll. That and a few hours further to recuperate saw him once more at the club that night in an older mustard yellow suit. Staying determinedly sober, the events of the night only had him apoplectic once, which meant it was a pretty good fucking day at the Parrot Club.

Slipping back into bed around two in the morning, once more in possession of his van, he could have fallen asleep with a fucking smile.

The next afternoon meant a follow-up visit to those what had skipped on collection day, and four hours later, he’d claimed seven thousand pound of the ten he was still owed. Christ fucking knew how they were getting the money, probably borrowing from someone else, but at least then it was some other fucker’s problem – not his. So all told it wasn’t too bad as far as follow-ups went, and it meant he only had to make a couple calls to his normal guys to take care of the fucking loser what wouldn’t cough up the remaining three. The guy, a bookie himself, was already in arrears two months over the three thousand quid, and Danny wanted the matter closed for good.

So it was with pretty high fucking spirits that he sauntered up the walk to their building and let himself inside, pausing a moment at the array of gunmetal mailboxes clinging to the wall. He fished out his keys and unlocked his box, a little perplexed by what greeted him inside.

Nestled amongst the bills was a box, but he couldn’t fucking remember ordering anything, and even if he had while drunk (which had happened once or twice), it didn’t look like his typical fare. The package was small and square, about the size of a few video tapes face to face, which, like the Victoria’s Secret bags, was probably the only reason it hadn’t been left on the floor. What with the apparent incompetence of the post, it was probably a mistake – that, or maybe his carrier had a bone to pick with him. With a wince, Danny filed it away to investigate later if the fucker owed him money or had fucking ever owed him money, and plucked the package from his mailbox with no real gentleness.

He flipped it over and stared at the label, not even caring that a few of his letters took a nosedrive to the ground. Isabelle French, Apt 3C stared back at him, the bold typeface of her address in stark contrast to the tiny but elegant Leather Etc printed in the upper lefthand corner. Danny would be fucking lying if he said curiosity wasn’t eating him up inside, but the bells in his head stayed fucking unrung at the name and he couldn’t imagine what would come in a box this size. A belt, maybe, or some kind of cuff. Not fucking interesting in their own right, but the fact that they were hers, now that mattered. But no matter what the fuck it was, she’d always treated his packages with respect, even before they knew each other properly, and he would fucking take every care to do the same.

The thought had him wondering if he should just send it back as she had the first hundred times, let the post fucking reroute it to its proper owner without her having to know a thing. It was tempting, but he couldn’t completely quash the niggling voice that whispered she might be pleased if he brought it to her by hand, and ultimately, it won out by a huge margin.

Scooping up his mail from box and floor, he took the steps two at a time to the top and made a beeline for her door.

After his first few raps failed to bring her, he’d decided he’d try again later. It was early yet, barely past five, and maybe she –

The moment he’d begun to turn away, the door smoothly swung inwards. Although her face had been blank before, she grinned widely at the sight of him.

“Oh hey, what’s up?” she asked, stepping back and out of the door’s path. Beyond her, two women, one Asian and the other what reminded him of a fox, sat on the couch.

Unsure if he was supposed to enter or not, he clutched the package in his hands tighter and waited on the threshold. His palms were already beginning to fucking sweat, and not wanting to dirty her mail, he thrust it towards her. “That loser fucker of a postman put this in my box.”

Although he could see the Asian woman visibly flinch at his language, Belle’s visage didn’t change appreciably. He said appreciably, because if he hadn’t spent so much fucking time imagining her face, he wouldn’t have noticed the slight furrow between her brows or the dimming in the wattage of her smile as she took her package. A slight reddish tinge rose in her cheeks, and he barely had a second to analyze it before she looked down at the thing in her hands.

It was gone when she looked back up, but he knew overcompensating when he saw it, and her smile was exactly fucking that.

“Thanks for returning it – funny how this keeps happening, huh? But oh, that reminds me,” and here she tore away from the door, motioning with a hand for him to come in as she walked to her kitchen. He closed the door behind him, feeling awkward on her posh carpet in his loud fucking shoes.

Passing into her apartment was like entering another world, and his brain couldn’t fucking handle the fact that though the layout was a mirror-image of his own, their two places couldn’t be more different. Like his office, his apartment was seventies inspired to put it nicely, while hers was soft and earthy, done in greens and yellows and browns he never would have thought to fucking put together. A small dinette set was tucked into a corner, and the huge Persian rug beneath his feet probably weighed as much as her. A long green couch sat against one wall, and the two women occupying it stared warily in his direction.

Only a couple seconds had passed, and his brain sputtered at the realization that she was still talking. Her voice echoed out from the galley kitchen, accompanied by the sound of the fridge and cabinets opening.

“– for you yesterday. I figured you might be feeling under the weather after a night like that, and I always like a hearty stew when that happens to me, if you don’t mind me being presumptuous.”

Coughing a bit, he stood awkwardly with nothing but his mail to hold. “I like stew.”

Really fucking eloquent there, Danny, he cursed silently, real fucking smooth. Could’ve said fucking anything, something funny, something fucking smart, and you go and say that?

Despite his inner tirade, her head popped out for a brief moment, her smile once again genuine, before she disappeared back into the kitchen. The telltale pop of a Tupperware met his ears. “Good, I’m glad to hear it. I mean obviously it’s a little late now, but when I went to take it to you yesterday, you didn’t answer your door.”

Ignoring the glares of the two women on his profile, he tried to look like he fucking owned the place. It was clear they already didn’t fucking like him, just by the way Ms. Fox narrowed her eyes, and it put his nerves on edge. Brushing off his sleeve with a feigned air of nonchalance, he replied, “I was probably already at the club. I’m a respected businessman, you know.”

“Oh I know,” Belle returned, and he didn’t miss the amused lilt to her tone. They both fucking knew it was when he was passed out in the early afternoon, but as long as it was her fucking laughing at him, and not the other two, he was fine.

After a few more moments she exited the kitchen, a Tupperware container what could hold an entire watermelon currently brimming with thick beef stew in her grasp. Her package was nowhere to be seen, and he had a second to reflect that she must have tucked it away somewhere in her kitchen before the stew was deposited into his waiting hands. It was heavier than it fucking looked.

“So I hope you enjoy it,” she said, and she looked so fucking hopeful he was certain it could taste like rusty nails and he wouldn’t say a thing.

He nodded, muttering something that passed for a thank you and just eager to be away from the Asian lady’s glare, almost as cold as her friend’s. Belle walked him to the door, and just as it neared close, said, so fucking casual and offhand, “Oh by the way, these are two of the friends I went out with the other night. Mulan and Ruby.”

By some measure of fucking divine grace, his feet kept moving, but inside felt like someone had just opened a cargo bay door into space.

Ms. Fox was Ruby - as in, Ruby whose catalog it was?

She obviously didn’t fucking know, but he knew, and Belle knew - and he’d stood there in front of her in Belle’s living room, straightening his spine and fronting like a fool, as if he hadn’t woken that morning and cracked open that catalog with a pen and paper at hand. He’d taken down names and numbers for the better part of an hour, flitting in and out of fantasy, and it wasn’t until his balls felt heavy and he could feel precum slipping against the fabric that he’d realized he’d begun rubbing himself through his underwear.

And now, walking back to his apartment with the soft click of the door behind him, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Belle had known all along. 

He wondered if she also knew he was wearing her pair.


	6. Rush Delivery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny googles the company on her package, and it’s quite clear Belle has her own kinks too. When he confronts her about it, things happen that neither of them expected.

Introspective was not a word that had often been used to describe him. Dogged and spitfire, sure, stubborn and delusional, maybe – but the practice of turning his perception inward to take stock of his feelings? Danny Devine could count on one hand the number of times that had happened, and one of them had been lying fucking drugged out of his mind in a hospital bed after taking a bullet to the ribcage. Near fucking death had a way of making a man look at his life choices.

This wasn’t near fucking death. This was a pretty smile and smart pair of blue eyes, and yet somehow, they had him doing the same fucking thing. Made no fucking sense.

But as much as he tried to avoid it, it kept coming back to the same thing. Danny was interested. Not in the way that he sized up a whore and wanted her assets, or the way he was interested in a larger slice of the cream fucking pie that was the Soho underbelly. The first was too clinical and the second too fucking intellectual. This was the kind of interested that had him wanting to fucking talk to the woman over cups of fucking tea and knock on her door just before going to the club to tell her how fucking delicious that stew fucking was.

He didn’t know her all that well considering, but he fucking wanted to.

As experience had shown him, that sort of thing was one fucking slippery slope, and though he was toeing it, Danny wasn’t sure yet if he wanted to draw too close to the edge. His hesitance and more than a dash of pride was what had him walking determinedly past her door when he left for the night, stomach pleasantly warm and full of what he could vouch for as a thick, rich stew, the kind he’d enjoyed as a boy. It would help with hangovers and keep ‘em away most like, and he was fucking pleased to say he still had a gallon of it in the freezer. Beat whatever the fuck he threw together most nights.

Rubbing against the layers of fabric as he walked, his prick was still a little tender from the treatment he’d given it an hour before, the panties what had been a gift pushed midway down his thighs. She’d brought him into her place with the woman what had owned the catalog right fucking there, glaring at him with his rumpled suit and greasy hair and none the wiser to what he had on underneath. Belle fucking knew and in his head he pretended she knew he was wearing her pair too, and the shame that had crept under his collar bright and hot and slithered into his belly had him hardening before he’d gotten the stew in the fucking fridge.

A part of him fucking felt like he should be fucking apologizing touching himself when she hadn’t given permission, but that was the stupidest fucking thing he’d heard all week. Fantasies were the last great playground of the human mind, and he wouldn’t fucking feel sorry for what went on in his own head. He didn’t fucking probe the issue beyond that, because a part of him fucking wanted to ask for permission and it scared him to think what answer he’d prefer more.

But there he was, fucking looking inward like there wasn’t a million fucking problems he had to take care of on the outside. Tonight, he vowed, he’d go to the club and try to put it from his fucking mind.

By the next day, he had to concede that effort as a huge fucking failure. Belle had stolen into his thoughts all night, and even if he’d liked to think it was something carnal, something he understood, the thoughts she’d raised had run more along the line of what she liked to fucking drink or what it was she did at the Archives than anything scandalous. Oh he’d had his fair share of those thoughts too – pouring her a glass of wine and then kneeling at her side and waiting until she wanted to take it, that popped up a bit, along with something else popping quite fucking up – but to his distress, they were in the minority, even if they made sitting at his desk a tad more fucking uncomfortable.

He’d been forced to concede the entire venture shot to hell when he’d taken a moment to look up the company what had been on her package.

That’s what really had him standing in front of her door on Saturday afternoon, the powder blue suit what had reminded him of something fucking royal itchy with starch. He wasn’t gentle with his knocks, pounding on her door until it opened.

He barely even gave her time to speak, interpreting the way she stepped slightly to the side as an invite and barreling his way inside. Roughly combing through his hair, he rounded on her when he heard the click of the door.

“Listen, I’m not fucking judging, but I googled that company what was on your box,” seeing her face begin to flush red and her eyes go wide, he continued in a breath, “and it was the shittiest fucking website I have ever fucking seen.”

“Thank God, I thought…” A laugh left her mouth, and if he didn’t know better, it sounded like one of relief. The tension left her shoulders, left bare by a plain white camisole. “I’ll agree on the website. But I like their discrete boxes and they have everything I could ever want.”

From the time he’d spent clicking around, poised somewhere between fucking horrified at the web design and longing to slip a hand beneath his waistband, he could fucking well see that. Pulling at his collar – and why did she keep it so fucking hot? – he looked around at her place, anywhere to avoid looking at her eyes. There were three bookcases he hadn’t noticed before. She worked at the fucking Archive, of course she had fucking loads of books.

Still standing in the middle of her living room, not really sure what to do with his hands, he tried to keep his voice steady, so cool and nonchalant like she managed with fucking perfect ease. “What did you get?”

Finally leaving her post at the door, she crossed the rug to pass into the kitchen. Water gurgled from the tap. “Nothing all that interesting, really,” she said.

About to follow her, he stopped when she reentered the living room, a glass of water in her hands. He wasn’t offered one, and he wasn’t sure what that meant. Instead, he said, “I mean it. I won’t judge. Besides,” he shoved his hands in his pockets, sick of fucking fiddling with them by his sides, “the box was too small to be a strap-on.”

“Yeah no, it definitely wasn’t that. I already have one in the linen closet,” Belle replied with a giggle, ignoring the way he sputtered incoherently and motioning for him to sit on the couch. She followed suit, falling onto the cushion next to him. A little more serious, she appraised her cup as she said, “The box is for someone special.”

Before he’d even realized, he could feel his heart sinking in his chest as cold reality flooded in. Of course she was already with some fucking bloke. Women like her didn’t stay on the fucking market long. “Oh.”

Her gaze snapped upwards, and it was like she could see the exact moment he came to the wrong conclusion. “Oh no, I mean – I mean hypothetically. I don’t have anyone right now. I’m waiting for someone I can really connect with, and the box is meant to be a present for them.”

A little dizzy with relief, he could only nod and force out, “That’s fucking nice of you.”

“Why thank you, Danny.” A wry grin quirking the corner of her lip, she leaned back against the cushion. “So have you glanced at the Frankly Darling catalog yet?”

“Did more than fucking glance.” At her laugh he realized what had just come out of his mouth, and he could have kicked himself. There were downsides to lacking any kind of filter whatsoever. “I found some… nice things that I really liked. They have some classy stuff.”

His insides flipped at discussing even that much.

She nodded, taking a sip of her water as if they were discussing the fucking weather and not his fucking fetish. “I thought so too. They’re a British company, did you know? Victoria’s Secret is a little overpriced in my opinion, but Frankly is worth it. Did you see the boyshorts?”

“I did. They looked promising. Fucking roomy.”

“That’s what I figured. Bikinis are less so, but anything is better than a thong.”

Completely at a loss to how she could be so fucking calm about the whole thing, he squared up and gripped the fabric of his pants. There was something he had to fucking know. “Did you invite me in yesterday just so I’d see her?”

“What?”

“Ruby,” he clarified. “You got the catalog from her. You just wanted me to see her.”

Raising an eyebrow, she met his gaze evenly. “Honestly? No. I wanted to give you some stew, which I had made for you.”

“Oh.” His chest deflated, and he felt fucking foolish for bringing up what was clearly just a fantasy. 

“But, when you did see her… how did it feel?” She crossed her legs, muscles relaxed and angled towards him as she looked like the fucking definition of self-possessed. “What were you thinking about?”

When he didn’t reply, his head tilting to the side as his body started to react, she prompted, “Did it bring up memories?”

“It depends on the kind.”

“Well, were you thinking about how you’d touched yourself while going through it?”

Her tone hadn’t changed, but it curled around his insides and tugged. His brain could barely process the fact that she was talking about him jerking off, much less the fact that she had just come right fucking out and asked as pretty as you fucking please.

Shaking a little, he sputtered, “How would you know that’s what I did?”

Her response was a roll of her eyes, fixing him with a tired sort of look. “Because I’m not an idiot, Danny. When I think about buying gear, I think of using it and I do the same thing. A lot of people do.”

The admission, as well as the images it brought, rocketed through his stomach and ripped any words from his tongue, and to his embarrassment and giddy fucking delight he felt what had been the beginnings of an erection from their talk of the catalog now lengthen and thicken further in his trousers. If she looked down, no doubt she’d start to see the bulge it made, but all she did was hold his gaze.

Unfazed, she tried again, “So how did it feel, knowing what you – what we – did? Knowing I could tell her at any time? This is no time to be shy, Danny, though I will stop if you ask me to and never mention it again.”

“No, please don’t, I…It was…” His mouth was dry, and he licked his lips as his gaze flashed to the water she was so calmly sipping. Blood steadily left his head, and as much as shame burned in his chest he couldn’t imagine asking her to stop for the fucking world. “It was embarrassing, and worrying and it felt…”

“Yes?”

“It felt so fucking good,” he breathed.

A blush beginning to suffuse her own cheeks, Belle only smiled in what he could have sworn was relief and genuine pleasure, her calm spell broken. “Good. It hadn’t been my intention, but when I thought about it later, I was a little worried but… Good.”

She stood then, and he instantly missed the heat of her next to him. “Can I get you some water?”

Nodding, he sat and waited patiently as she padded to the kitchen, hearing the water run as his cock ached and pressed against the black satin he’d slipped on earlier. The sensation of the cool, slick fabric whispering against his head with every little movement was maddening, and had him gritting his teeth. He accepted the glass she returned with, drinking half of it quickly before placing it on the side table.

She sat back down next to him, and before he could lose his nerve, he admitted, “I was wearing the pair you bought me yesterday.”

“Yeah?” He hadn’t imagined the breathy undertone in her voice, the way she unconsciously scooted closer.

“And I don’t mind,” he tried to explain, feeling sweat pool under his jacket as his insides heated up, “that is to say, I liked when you… asked me those questions.”

She nodded, his eyes latching onto the way her tongue flashed out to wet her lips. “Then how did it feel wearing them all day knowing I’d told you to?”

His cock twitched at the reminder – wear them, and he had. “Good.”

A little more self-possessed than she had been earlier, he could still see the way her pupils had blown wide. Tsking, she drew closer yet, until her knee bumped his own. “Be more specific now, Danny.”

“I went and collected in them. And I could feel them every time I fucking moved, and I felt…”

He couldn’t finish, this admission above all the others somehow too personal. It felt too much like baring his hand, and he wasn’t quite fucking sure yet if that was a good idea. But the way she waited, staring at him with a tilt to her head and letting him find his word, had it coming out anyway.

“Wanted.”

The way her face changed at that, happiness making it almost fucking glow, was enough to convince him it had been worth it. Belle finally looked down, the way his cock tried to tent his pants obscenely obvious, and he could have sworn he heard a soft intake of breath through her lips.

“Maybe I should show you,” she murmured, rising from the couch and heading in the direction of her bedroom. Moments later she was back, the box carried reverently in her hands, and she settled herself almost against his side. The cardboard whispered like dry pages as she opened it up, gently pulling a thin leather collar from inside.

He could read embarrassment on her own face as they both stared at the piece of leather, unobtrusive and without bells or studs or any of the other things he’d come to expect from a BDSM collar. It was thin and looked soft and supple, the relief of some pattern in the leather visible on the side.

A half-chuckle escaped her lips as she gently handed it to him, explaining, “I want my submissive, whoever he ends up being, to feel loved and wanted whenever he wears this. Kind of silly to have bought it for a partner who doesn’t exist though, I guess.”

“Not silly at all, Belle.” A fingertip tracing over the pattern on the side, part of him ached at the thought of her touch on the back of his neck, the light rustle of the leather as she buckled it into place. The fantasy so real it almost hurt, he didn’t realize she was taking it back to return to its box until she already had.

He’d never fucking allowed himself to entertain the notion of a collar or belonging or of fucking listening to a woman like that, and maybe he was just too aroused already, but the thought had him fighting for breath. Danny didn’t know what it was about her that made him feel like he’d gone through life with his eyes closed, but they were open now, and they were staring at her.

Turning to the end table on her side, she placed the box out of his sight. He knew they were moving fast, too fucking fast, but he hadn’t ever been able to talk with anyone about his preference, and it had him nearly dizzy.

“They had ones made entirely of lace,” he said hoarsely, gripping his thighs to keep from reaching for her or himself, he couldn’t decide. “They looked so very soft.” 

“I know, they are. I love the way they feel. But isn’t it uncomfortable to wear them, though?”

Imagining Belle wearing one of the ones he’d liked the most had him nearly trembling, almost as much as the thought of him wearing it too. He shook his head at her question, managing, “Not too bad. They’re softer than cotton, very silky, and I like the way they fit snug, and I –”

He swallowed, feeling his balls draw up, “Belle, I really need to fucking go.”

Concern swept across her face at his statement, and she pulled back hastily as if burned. “No problem. I’m really, really sorry, Danny. I never should have brought it up. I know it’s so soon but I just couldn’t help it and –“

Her misunderstanding of the situation had him barking out a laugh and feeling like he wanted to scream all in one, reaching for one of her hands and squeezing. Her palm was so small and her skin so soft. “That’s not it, Belle. I’m too fucking close.”

Unsure if it was the fact that he’d offered it without prompting or the fact that he’d gotten there with words alone, her brows rose to her hairline and her mouth opened in a silent oh. He rose unsteadily to his feet, running a hand through his hair. His intestines felt like fucking piano wire, and it would only take a few rubs to have him coming in his fucking pants again.

Trying to save at least a little bit of male dignity but failing fucking massively at it, he made for her door with a stiff gait.

“Wait.” He paused at her command, turning to watch as she rose just as shakily to her feet as well. She was smiling shyly, and pulled at the bottom of her camisole. “I know you leave for work around 8, but would you like to go to dinner with me before?”

“I’d love to.”

This wasn’t how he’d seen the visit going. And as a matter of fucking fact, in his mind’s eye, he saw himself leaping clear off that slippery slope of interested into whatever the fuck waited beyond.


	7. Library Mail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny and Belle grab dinner, and he finds himself learning about her as a person… and as a Domme. That wouldn’t have been surprising, if it hadn’t meant starting to discover a little about himself as well.

The restaurant was not the one he would have fucking picked, but that’s because he was secretly hoping she’d steer towards the Indian place a few doors down. As far as options went though, the little Thai place beat out a lot of the other greasier joints they’d passed and rejected. Danny may have liked a sausage roll and frequenting a chippy on his own time, but it wasn’t really a date spot, now was it?

And that’s what they were fucking on – a date.

It had his head reeling just thinking about it, not helped by the skirt what came midway down her thighs and swished around them pleasantly. He’d seen miniskirts and scraps of cloth what barely deserved the name, but those didn’t follow the curve and rhythm of her hips the way this did. She looked fresh-faced with her hair clipped back, and he’d taken the few hours he’d had between their exchange and dinner to take care of his little problem in the shower (and he’d come so hard it’d had him shaking) and put on a cleaner, newer suit. It was halfway between a red and brown, similar to his Unlucky Suit what had gotten him shot but not quite the same shade. He’d washed his hair twice and sprayed expensive cologne, and Danny thought he looked rather fucking spiffy, if he did say so himself.

Her hand rested gently on his arm as the hostess lead them to their seats, tucked into a corner and well away from any other patrons. The privacy was well fucking appreciated, and if he believed in tipping generously, he would have for that alone.

He watched as she settled herself comfortably into the black wooden chair across from him, a natural sort of grace he didn’t have permeating her every fucking movement. For a woman she might have been a little clumsy, but he was fucking unsteady as shite, so it was all relative. Most of the time he tended to spend on the balls of his feet, waiting for the other fucking shoe to drop and ready to bolt, but Belle seemed to fucking glide.

Peering at the menu, he found he couldn’t fucking concentrate on the words. Belle had a finger or two pressed over her mouth as she appraised her own selection, and her every movement kept snapping him back to the reminder that she was out with him. It made him want to dunk his head in the nearest bucket of ice water.

After the waitress had brought their waters and taken their requests for a whiskey neat and a glass of Chardonnay (and one fucking guess whose was whose), Belle laid aside her menu. “I’ve always loved Thai food,” she confessed. “I’ve dreamed of going to Thailand one day.”

Still unsure what he was going to have but figuring he’d decide when the woman came back, he shrugged. “So why don’t you? Save up and go to Bangkok or whatever the fucking city is called.”

A laugh tore its way from her lips at that, light and airy and more than a little bemused. “If only it were that easy. My job pays, but not enough – I’ll probably never see the world like I want to. It’s much easier, and cheaper, to just buy books and stick to being an armchair traveler.”

Taking a sip of his water, he winced at the fucking alien feeling of nerves coiling in his stomach. He was hoping the woman would fucking hurry up with the whiskey. “You must read a lot, working at the fucking Archives and all, yeah?”

“Sometimes to distraction, honestly.” A light color rose in her cheeks, but she was fucking smart, so he didn’t know what it was she had to be embarrassed about.

The chance that she might find him too ignorant not helping his anxiety, he asked, “What is it that you uh, do there?”

“I’m a late medieval text and records specialist. Really that’s a fancy title for a librarian who specializes in anything from the twelfth to the fifteenth centuries.”

“So you… catalog old things?” Fucking stupid, that’s what you are, Danny. He could have kicked himself. What kind of fucking question was that?

Unaware of his silent diatribe, Belle shrugged and took a sip of her own water. “More or less. I preserve and catalog, but mostly I help people with their research or finding records – things like that. I really like it. You never know what new insight you’re going to uncover each day.”

He knew about the only thing he was going to uncover in his line of work was a stripper’s tits, and somehow the thought had him feeling empty in a way it never had before. Thankfully the arrival of their drinks saved him from replying, and Danny counted to five in his head after the woman put them down before diving for his. At least Belle took hold of her own glass, taking a delicate sip and holding it as she waited for him to finish with his swig.

Realizing he knew next to nothing about the qualifications of an archivist – because to be honest, how many had he fucking met of those? – he tried, “You went to Uni for a degree in uh, what’s it fucking called, library science?”

She nodded, and spoke more into her drink when she mumbled, “I also got my doctorate from University of London in medieval studies.”

Struck dumb for a few seconds, the name Dr. Isabelle French repeated on loop in his mind, like she was some stuffy posh fucker and not a young, confident, beautiful woman. It made his own name, plain as fuck Daniel William Devine, and distinct lack of academic anything all the more apparent. But Belle fucking knew he wasn’t as educated as her, so she must not give a fucking rat’s ass, right?

Right?

“A PhD… Christ, how old are you?” It was out before he could stop it.

One eyebrow arching, she replied, “Don’t you know not to ask a lady that? I’m turning thirty-one next May.”

Privately he reflected that she looked younger than that, but he had to concede that his ability to tell ages had been dulled by working in a place where it was constantly surgically defied.

“And how old are you?”

“Forty-four in April.” He didn’t consider himself to be old, but forty-four was fucking middle-aged, wasn’t it? Christ. Last thing he needed was her thinking he was having some kind of midlife crisis five fucking years too early – as if he wasn’t a fucking catch before, this only served to send it further down the fucking tubes. Only thing he could say was that he was still thin, albeit pretty fucking scrawny.

She only nodded though, remarking thoughtfully, “I never would have pegged you for forty-four. I figured you were maybe thirty-five, to be honest.”

For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out if that was meant to be a fucking good thing. Was she glad he looked younger than he was, or was she fucking disappointed that he wasn’t as young as he looked? Her face didn’t give much away, and before he knew it, she was asking fucking questions of her own.

“So how did you come to own the Parrot Club?” She leaned forward the tiniest bit, as if he was actually interesting and worth fucking listening to, and if nothing else it made him feel a little bit better.

Even if most days he was indifferent to the nature of the club, the successful running of it for years now was one thing he was fucking proud of. For once the straightening of his spine wasn’t fucking bravado, but actual confidence. Danny Devine had a head for business, and he fucking put it to good use.

“It was a fucking horse of a different color when I started working there, called the Flame. Wasn’t doing well, so I saw my chance – bought out the blokes that owned it and redid it.”

She quirked a smile. “Were you working the pole?”

The comment had him twitching, and it took him barely a second to sputter, “No. Was the bartender and accountant, thank you very much. The only reason the place didn’t close two years before it did was because I kept it fucking afloat.”

If the slight rise of her brows and approving nod of her head were any sign, Belle seemed impressed by the story, and that was a good thing because his success in business, no matter how seedy, was the only thing he fucking had to offer her. Wanting to maybe sound sharp for a change, he continued, “All the places nowadays are going for those cookie-cutter ultra-hip modern lounges, so I figured it would be better to pay homage to the heyday. It’s been good for business so far.”

A little fucking thrilled that he was keeping her attention out of something more than politeness, he could barely believe it. “And it’s fucking dark, like real fucking dark, and the girls said they couldn’t find their way around. So we started giving people these miner hats as a gimmick. Saves on electricity too.”

Belle chuckled at that, and he figured it didn’t need to be said that he really fucking meant it – he saved a ton each month on operating at the lowest amount of power he legally could.

“You must be very good at numbers.”

“I’m the club’s accountant for everything but taxes, so I hope so,” he said, and he felt like he could bask in her fucking smile. “Didn’t go to uni though. Wasn’t for me.”

He reached for his whiskey then, hiding behind it and leaving out the fact that he hadn’t gone because he’d started working at fifteen. Once his fucking loser of a father skipped home for the third and final time, bills had racked up at home real fucking fast.

While he didn’t think she’d judge him for it, because fuck she’d seen worse, Danny couldn’t be too fucking sure it wouldn’t make her see what a fucking loser he was too. He wasn’t a diamond in the rough, he was a fucking piece of shite in a mountain of shite. And like so many other things, that hadn’t bothered him before now.

Belle only nodded sagely at his statement that he hadn’t attended university, saying, “Yeah, sometimes it isn’t for everyone. Different times now though. Everyone and their brother goes now.”

Although he wouldn’t know a thing about that, Danny nodded as if he did.

The waitress finally coming round to take their order was a boon of the fucking highest caliber, because if Danny wanted to get off any subject, it was certainly this one. Belle requested a noodle dish and he wanted green curry, and while normally he’d ask for it as fucking spicy as they could fucking make it, he didn’t want to devolve into a sweating fucking pig in front of her. He did that bad enough on his own if the state of his palms were any indication, or the way he kept having to wipe them off on his trousers every so often. 

When the woman finally left, Danny wanted to learn as much as he could while Belle was still willing to talk to him. He started off with simple questions before probing deeper, and if a part of him, however small a sliver, had been afraid he’d be bored, he wasn’t. Despite what some fuckers might think, he did have more than two brain cells to rub together, and he fucking liked hearing about the realms of life he’d never fucking experienced before. Belle had a natural way of storytelling, of spinning the littlest things into these grand fucking tales you didn’t want to end, and some ridiculous anecdotes about the kind of people that reached out to her for help. Some academics are very odd, she’d said, and he had to say it about summed up his feelings on the matter.

Overall he got a picture of her life, quiet and comfortable, and he found himself wondering if she ever wished she had someone to come home to. He shoved those kinds of thoughts away, determined to enjoy the experience minute by minute while it lasted.

He hadn’t realized they’d been talking for as long as they had until their food, steaming and fragrant, settled down between them. Unless he wanted to scald his mouth his was a little too hot to eat yet, so though she tucked into hers, he sat and sipped his water.

As fast as it came to mind, his next thought was out of his mouth.

“So you’re a kinky librarian then.”

Rather than take offense, as he feared she might, Belle only laughed, the sound wrapping around him pleasantly. Leaning over her food a bit, she admitted, “It’s really the worst stereotype, but only because it’s not off by much. I don’t wear glasses or a bun, but on any given day I probably have garters on. Oh – and I keep a crop in my desk.”

And that’s when his fingers decided it would be a great time to let go.

Cool wetness bloomed in his lap as the quarter-full glass of water fell to splash over his thigh, and he jumped and wriggled like a fish on a hook as the heavy glass clattered to the floor. His next thought had him reaching for his napkin to try to wipe it off, trying to convince himself it had just been the condensation on the glass what had caused him to drop and not the image of her in garters as she made him lean over her desk.

Belle proffered her own napkin, and when he waved it away, continued to fix him with a guilty look. “I’m really sorry, Danny… it was just a quip.”

“Really, it’s fine. Only water.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, but then finally she seemed to give up. “I’m not really into crops.”

“But if you were,” he said, glancing upward before returning to his pants, “you might keep it in your fucking desk.”

“That I might.”

Rubbing wasn’t helping all that much, the damp patch on his thigh still fucking noticeable, but at least it had fallen sufficiently enough away from his crotch that it didn’t look like he’d fucking pissed himself. Belle also didn’t seem in any way cognizant of how fucking stupid he looked.

“How’d the cup make out?”

“What? Oh.” He paused a moment to peer to the side, noting that while the thing hadn’t shattered, a sizeable chunk had been taken out of the side. “Chipped.”

“At least it’s just a cup.”

Unable to quite meet her eyes, he used the effort of trying to dry his pants as a distraction, and said, “So you’re pretty open about all of this, yeah?”

Even though he wasn’t looking directly, he still caught the way her head tipped to the side. No doubt she’d be nibbling on that fucking juicy lower lip too. “Well I don’t go shouting it from my windows,” she replied, “But with likeminded people I’m pretty open, yeah. I practice safely and consensually, so I don’t have anything to hide.”

After so long strangling that part of himself, seeing someone who embraced it was like seeing a fucking unicorn. The easy way she discussed it was disorienting, but she continued before he could wonder more about what that kind of self-acceptance felt like.

“I tend to only really practice when I’m with a stable partner,” she said, tone pensive as if she was really thinking about her answer, “so I don’t go to many play parties or anything like that. But the community, in person and online, is very helpful to have. You’re really not alone, you know, even though it feels that way.”

Belle shrugged, a movement he looked up to catch. “I mean, haven’t you ever just typed it into Google?”

The product of years of conditioning, his answer was out his mouth before he could stop it. “No, because they’re freaks and I’m not.”

She flinched a little at that, and he realized with growing horror he’d just grouped her into that category as well. Backpedaling furiously, he could practically fucking see her mentally pulling away, and he couldn’t speak fast enough, “Look I guess it’s something I knew at least a few other fucking blokes must do but it wasn’t… it wasn’t something I fucking wanted to do.”

Her napkin seemed to chain her eyes to her lap, her voice bright with false enthusiasm, “I see. And that’s fine. Really.”

A little frantic, Danny didn’t know how to convey to her what shifted, because he didn’t fucking understand it himself. There was only one thing he knew, and he fucking said it. “But that’s not the fucking case anymore, alright.”

She looked up, hopeful at that, and he found himself spilling without even stopping to think, “What happened earlier today, that was something I’ve never fucking experienced before. I’ve never fucking been that close just from talking.” He lowered his voice, even though no one was near them but unwilling to risk it, adding, “I don’t even feel like that when I have sex.”

The kind of searching stare she’d applied to her napkin moments before turned on him, appraising him. “That’s because you haven’t had the kind of foreplay you need. I was just trying to help you get into the headspace.”

He laughed a little at the memory, wondering exactly which of his two heads this space belonged to. “You did. It was straight out of a fucking fantasy. Better than any fantasy.”

Her smile could have fucking powered a light bulb. “So you do enjoy humiliation.”

He hadn’t really known that’s what it was, at least not in the way that erotic humiliation was apparently a fucking thing, but having a concept – a word – behind all of his fantasies felt so fucking right. “Yeah.”

“Yeah, what? Say it for me.”

His cheeks went hot, and for the fifteenth time in about as many seconds, he was thankful no one was around to see. Their little nook kept prying eyes and ears away, and for the moment, it felt just like the fucking two of them. “Yeah I enjoy humiliation.”

She took a sip of her wine, her glass now nearing the bottom, and asked, “And if I ordered you to wear my underwear?”

He shivered a little at the thought. Nodded.

“What about nylon hose?”

He was fucking nodding before he had time to process it, and even once he had, it only made him nod all the fucking more. It would probably feel smooth and fucking slippery against his skin, and while he probably wouldn’t wear it out, in her apartment he thought he’d fucking like it.

“And is that all?”

He opened his mouth, and other fantasies flooded his mind, whirring past in a blur: him waiting on his knees by her with the wine, asking for permission to come, brushing her hair. Overwhelmed, he couldn’t parse out what they meant, and settled for a halting, “I don’t… I don’t know. No.”

“That’s fine,” Belle said, shrugging. “You’re just starting. It takes a while to figure it all out.”

“I could tell you. Or at least try to. Sometime.” It came out garbled, and he prayed to Christ she wouldn’t say no. If her pupils had been any indication, she’d enjoyed that afternoon as much as he fucking had, drawing his deepest secrets from him and watching as he’d squirmed in the heady mix that was shame and desire.

That thought was what held him steady until she said, grinning, “I’d love that.”

The sense of relief that filled him had him nearly sagging against the chair, mustering up enough energy to ask quietly, “And so you’re a… dominatrix?”

Her nose wrinkled at that, like she smelled something bad. For once, he figured it probably wasn’t him. “I prefer the term Domme, or Goddess, and I would say that if the concept you have in your head is the kind from porn, no I’m not like that.”

Although the idea of Goddess had him perking up, he had to admit that the porn concept was the one he was most familiar with. “Then what are you like?”

As if remembering that their meals still waited patiently before them, she looked down in surprise before pausing to tease some noodles around her fork. He upended his rice bowl into his curry, finding with a bite that at least his hadn’t gotten cold in the intervening time. Cursing a bit as some rice fought to escape his chopsticks, he waited for her to reply.

Belle swallowed completely before she said, “I don’t think I’m all that complicated really. I won’t sit here and spew specialized terms, but it’s pretty much service and submission, humiliation, that sort of thing. And, as you know,” here a smile quirked her lips, “I can totally roll with having a sissy boy.”

If while she’d spoken, he’d originally started to formulate something intelligent in response, it fell to pieces with her last sentence. So did the rice between his chopsticks, falling to splatter over his lap.

Belle only shook her head and handed over her napkin.


	8. To Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Interlude, but important for next chapter.) Danny, if you could pick one thing for Belle to tell you to do… what would that be?

Although there had been a few times he’d been too deep in his fucking cups to stop himself, this was the first occasion Danny could remember searching the internet for… likeminded sites when completely sober. Much of it was instructional, and almost without thinking he found himself bookmarking a few things that looked promising, doing it quickly as if to pretend he hadn’t at all. No one was in his fucking home watching over his shoulder, but old habits were hard to break.

Others were more meta oriented, and he found himself reading articles that might as well have been called So You Want to be a Fucking Submissive for the direction of their content. They had mollified him somewhat, real, tangible assurance that the desires he’d felt since he was a teenager weren’t as abhorrent as he’d always assumed they were. The comments were better, tips and anecdotes that had him squirming in his seat and shivering as desire licked at the base of his spine. Some were filed away in his spank bank, ideas for fantasies he’d never even fucking thought of.

The general articles had proved somewhat helpful, but as the articles on pain and bondage failed to stir anything inside him, he found himself modifying his search terms a bit. Up had popped a list of humiliation activities, and without him fully realizing a hand had slipped to pop the button and lower the zipper on his trousers. No longer restrained, his cock pushed against the fabric of his underwear through the flaps, and two fingers rubbed his shaft through the silky material.

There was one thing in particular about a sixth of the way down the list, the single sentence encapsulating a vague but powerful idea that had fucking lurked in his head for decades. It didn’t take much effort to imagine how it might play out with Belle, the memory of their first date the day before flooding his mind with her scent, her laugh, her fucking smile. 

He’d be doing something at his desk, it didn’t really matter fucking what, when she’d walk in and come to stand beside him. Crossing her arms, she’d order him to present – and here the word had him trembling, but still he didn’t reach beneath the thin layer separating his fingers from his shaft. He’d stand quickly, wanting to show how well he could please her, and drop his trousers to pool around his feet. Nothing would hide the lacy pair he had on, a pair she’d picked out and bought just for him, and his cock would be soft, but it would harden under her gaze. She could choose to do nothing more than look before bidding him sit, content at having reinforced her authority, or she would call him her slut, her sissy boy and ask how he expected to please her being less than a man. Or she could lay a hand over him, not moving, just feeling him thicken under her palm and knowing it was all for her. His collar would almost burn against his sensitized skin, and when her eyes would ghost over it, he’d feel so utterly hers that he could barely breathe. She could pull aside the lace and trace over him delicately until he was moaning, and then she would stop, stepping back and away and telling him to get back to whatever he was doing. Without her permission, he couldn’t touch himself, much less come, but the knowledge that his cock was hers to play with as she saw fit would have him twitching against the fabric and unable to think about anything other than her.

Swallowing back a groan, he shifted to push his trousers and underwear down his thighs, hoping that if he ever worked up the fucking courage to tell her, Belle would be pleased with the idea.


	9. Signature Confirmation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle has stopped bringing up the kinks that characterized their initial meetings, and Danny can’t figure out why. He thinks he screwed something up, even though they seem to be drawing closer.

Despite the voice in his head that said he’d never see her again, they’d had three more dates. One was tea in her flat the following Wednesday what had seen him leaving with a few books she’d picked out based on his tastes, and he surprised himself with the fact he had half a mind to read them – or at least to flip through and read the interesting parts, since he couldn’t promise fucking everything. The second could have been foiled by the Tube fucking up after they’d left the restaurant, but the string of transfers and detours from one end of London to the other what could have been a disaster meant he got to talk to her longer and ended up being a sort of adventure – the only one Londoners ever tended to have, she’d joked.

The third date, his favorite, was a walk around an empty Hyde Park, crisp and chilly in a way that meant he got to pull her closer against the wind. Maybe she fucking meant for that to happen, he didn’t know, because she certainly didn’t resist and merely tipped a beaming smile up at him when he did.

That fucking smile made him go all fucking warm inside like a shot of tequila, even made him feel like he was fucking drunk too. That wasn’t something he was fucking used to, but he hoarded the feeling and tried to burn it into his memory all the same.

So in all respects, and by every fucking standard he had, those three dates had gone fucking swimmingly. That’s why he was still pretty fucking confused as to what he was doing wrong.

Whatever it was, it must have been something, and something fucking terrible, because although she wanted to talk about anything and everything under the sun, the kinds of questions and kinky fucking talk that had pervaded their first few meetings was absent. Now Danny didn’t mind this in principle – he wanted to fucking know her and he was glad he was getting the fucking chance – but the fact that it had dropped off the face of the earth without warning meant he must be doing something wrong.

Was it something he said? Sure he’d said some stupid shite, but he’d corrected it, hadn’t he? He wracked his brain late at night, trying to find something he’d accidentally left hanging or might have offended her irrevocably with. Nothing came to mind, which meant it was something he did, and he scoured his mind for any faults there too. He’d been a gentleman, well as much as he could be, and she’d seemed pleased, hadn’t she? Belle would quirk a smile whenever he held open a door or took her coat, and it wasn’t fucking chivalry what had him doing it, it was the fact that he fucking liked pleasing her, thank you very much. He’d do anything or fetch anything she asked and wait for her to take it at her leisure, even if it took a fucking hour – only she never asked, and she never mentioned it.

He hadn’t fucking dated in years, probably a good ten by now, but he was no stranger to being dumped. If Belle had cut off all contact, or begged off as wanting to just be friends, that would be fucking understandable. Clear cut and dry, he could deal with that, as much as it would fuck him up to lose this.

But this was another matter entirely – they were still very much dating. They’d even kissed in the Park for Christ’s sake. She’d just looked so fucking perfect in her dark blue coat against the grey sky, cheeks rosy and her eyes like the fucking Caribbean, full of color and life and before he could think better of it, he’d been dipping his head to press his lips to hers. Nice and gentle, nothing demanding and thankfully not too clumsy from his recent lack of practice, and when he’d pulled away after a moment, she’d whispered I was waiting for you to do that and rose up on her tiptoes to return the favor.

Although they’d had his cheeks flushed, and the winter air somehow seeming a little less crisp, they weren’t the kind of kisses that went to his cock, although he supposed they did that some too. These went to his belly, and his head, and his heart, and they were fucking invigorating, the kind of fucking kiss that when he pulled away to see her looking at him with that open kind of wonder he knew was on his own face – he felt like some fucking magic had happened.

So yes, they were still very much dating, and they even had a date planned for the next night as a matter of fact. If she wanted to hold off on the kink talk until they could get to know each other more, he was all for that; Danny was pretty much all for whatever kept her coming back. Only she hadn’t said that was why, and in the back of his mind, he couldn’t escape the niggling fear it was because she knew he’d fail if she tried taking him on.

He wasn’t experienced, he knew that. She was probably used to blokes what knew what to do right off the bat, who weren’t currently battling their way up the learning curve at odd hours of the morning as they scrolled through webpages online. Why would she settle for a scrawny and uneducated fucker what couldn’t even please her, he figured, when academia and posh fucking circles were probably full of men who’d bend over backwards for her? It didn’t help that he couldn’t tell what was reliable online and what wasn’t, but reading about activities and separating the ones what merely earned a shrug or a wince from the ones what had him fucking leaking precome onto his hand was helping him to sketch a better picture of himself. He knew some of the language now, and he’d tried to piece it together in relation to his wants the way Belle had – or at least until she’d stopped talking about it.

After spending the past twenty years wishing he could rip this part of himself out, Danny never thought he’d see the day where he’d actually regret having abstained from getting to know it, fostering it and embracing it like Belle did that part of her. He would have expected it to be almost fucking impossible to shed his loathing for it, but while he still felt a twinge every now and again, a what the fuck am I doing that had his brain stuttering to a stop, those moments were coming less and less. When they did hit him, he found that all he needed to do was think of that day on her couch, how fucking alive he’d felt and more aroused than he’d been in ages, and it all made sense.

Danny liked her, really fucking liked her, and the worry that he wasn’t good enough to be hers almost kept him up at night. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had kept him up at night what wasn’t in the process of fucking him, and that because he’d probably paid her to. With whores one never had to worry about measuring up, but one never got the feeling of happiness or belonging either, so it was a fair trade. Those two he found in spades when he was with Belle, and if she would let him, he would try to be what she needed. Turning onto his side the night before he was supposed to see her again, he vowed that if nothing else, he would at least mention it.

As it turned out he didn’t all throughout dinner, this time at an Indian place he’d picked out with relish. He learned more about her da and skirted questions about his, giving her the bare bone facts because to be fucking honest, there wasn’t much more when it came to the piece of shite. His mum though was another story, still back in Belfast, and he found himself talking about her with a fond smile. Nobody ever fucking asked about his mum or presumed to think there was a human being anywhere what would care if he lived or died, and he found some of the brighter parts of his childhood, what parts there were anyway, spilling from his mouth to make Belle laugh. He liked to think he knew Belle pretty well now – everything from how she fucking took her tea (a pinch of sugar and a splash of milk) to how she got the oblong scar on her elbow (falling off a ladder in the library) to what failing in the human race she found the most saddening (the way people committed atrocities in the name of love) – and the idea that she knew him just as well and hadn’t fucking left yet had him constantly reeling.

If anything, she seemed to find him funny, and had told him in all seriousness that he was cleverer and far more intelligent than he gave himself credit. He’d preened at that, and it was only her remark that he looked like his club’s namesake what had him deflating a bit until he saw she was only kidding. She ribbed him like that often, not that he minded, and a part of him conceded it might be fucking good to stop taking himself so seriously. Belle had a way of laughing at herself, and although the thought of fuckers laughing at him had him bristling or hardening by turns, the thought of anyone laughing at Belle had him seeing fucking red.

And that’s how dinner passed, the conversation flowing pretty naturally from one thing to another until the check was signed and they were walking, arms linked, out the restaurant. Another successful date, he hoped, even though she hadn’t brought up anything kink-wise and he was no closer to figuring out how he was displeasing her.

He wasn’t too keen on getting home since it meant the date was over, but he offered, “Do you want to head for the Tube?”

Belle shook her head, and her breath left her lips in ethereal puffs. “It’s not too far, I don’t mind walking.”

Pegging the walk at around twenty minutes, Danny was secretly pretty fucking glad she hadn’t chosen the faster means of transportation. Ice crunched under their feet, and for a main road, there weren’t as many people out as there would be in the warmer months. The not-quite-privacy of a cold city street was perfect for what he wanted to say.

He felt her body, warm and solid at his side, and tried to find the right words inside his head. Talking about this sort of thing tended to trip him up, but he liked to think he was getting better. His vocabulary had improved a bit if nothing else, though there was still so much he knew he didn’t know he didn’t know, if that made any fucking sense.

Eyes fixed on a point on the ground in front of them, he started simple. “I’ve been wondering something.”

“What is it?” Belle sounded genuinely curious, and from the corner of his eye he could see her looking at him.

“When we first started this, you asked me questions and,” here he took a breath, forcing the word out, “humiliated me all the time. But now you don’t. Did I do something to fuck it all up? You can tell me if I did, because I fucking do it often –”

She stopped suddenly, her arm jerking him to a halt as well. This was a conversation he much would have preferred to have while moving, expelling the nervous energy that crackled through his bones, but if she wanted to stop, they’d stop. As it was, one of her hands gently cupped the side of his face, turning his head to meet her gaze. It was so soft as to be almost a caress, and he couldn’t fucking remember the last time someone had touched him like that.

“Oh no, Danny, don’t think that. You didn’t screw anything up, I just…” Without her usual smile, her visage was grave, solemn, and here it fucking was, he figured, here was where she told him what an unworthy piece of shite he was. “I just didn’t want to push you.”

His lips parted, but it was hardly the dismissal he’d been expecting, and any reply he could think of dissolved before he could give it breath. In the silence that stretched between them, she soldiered on, her eyes crinkling with worry. “I wanted to make sure it was really what you wanted, and that I wasn’t pressuring you into accepting it just because I wanted it. You’re still new, and I felt like I was throwing you in the deep end.”

Her fingertips trailed over his cheek, and a small, nervous smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “I like you, a lot,” and if his heart hadn’t been beating a wild tattoo already, it would have now, “and not just because of any kinks. I wanted to show that. If you weren’t comfortable with it, we could still date and maybe work up to things later – or never at all.”

A little horrified by the idea of never feeling that rush, that life again, he took hold of the hand that had since slipped down to rest on his shoulder. His words came out faster than he’d wanted, buoyed on emotion and the fear of losing what they had. “That’s very sweet of you, Belle, and I fucking mean that, but that’s not what I want at all. I want this to be a part of us. I know I’m shite at expressing it, but,” and here he didn’t even have to stop to think, merely said the words he’d been fucking dying to since he first learned what it was, “I want to be yours.”

Her brows rose skyward, and he could see clearly the pale purple eye shadow she’d applied. She spoke slowly, and whether it was to convince him or herself, he didn’t know. “You want me to be your Domme.”

“Yes.” It felt so fucking good to say.

“You’re sure?”

“Completely.”

Belle was quiet for a few moments, her gaze scrutinizing his face as if looking for some shred of doubt or discomfort written in the lines there. She wouldn’t fucking find it, Danny knew; he may have been new to this, but he was absolutely sure it was something he wanted to pursue.

No doubt she still thought they were moving fast, and maybe they were, but he wanted to reassure her he’d taken the steps necessary to know what he was getting into. Her hand was so small between the two of his, and as his thumbs smoothed over her skin, he held her gaze. “I’m not ignorant of what being a submissive means. I’ve been reading up and trying to understand, figuring out what I like. I think I can tell you more now.”

He wanted to raise her hand to his mouth, press kisses to her knuckles and worship any inch of her body he could. But he didn’t move, merely took solace from the rapid heartbeat he could feel under his fingertips. “I’d try so hard to be good and not to fucking disappoint you.”

“You wouldn’t disappoint me,” she murmured thoughtfully, and he was fucking relieved to see her worry had dissipated, “not because of ignorance, anyway. It’s not a skill you can acquire or be good at, like driving a car. But I’m glad you’re learning what you like…”

She looked down, a bit flushed. “And I’d love for you to tell me sometime.”

“I will. And you’ll… tell me what you want, yeah?”

“Of course. We’ll teach each other.”

Unable to stop the grin that wanted to fucking split his face, Danny felt better than he had in ages. He felt like he was fucking flying, and as they resumed walking, all he could hear in his head was I’m her sub I’m her sub I’m her sub.

They had walked for maybe half a block, leaning into each other and turning smiles at the other, when he heard a giggle leave her mouth.

Side-eyeing her, he asked wryly, “What’s so fucking funny?”

“Nothing. Here I was waiting for you to even mention it on your own, and you come along and surprise me by taking it a step further than I thought.”

He laughed a bit at the implication, knowing she probably hadn’t expected him to be exploring on his own. “I thought you were angry with me, honestly.”

Her free hand flew to pat his arm reassuringly, but she didn’t stop walking. “No, no, nothing like that. I guess I didn’t go about it in the best way, but I just didn’t want to influence you. For future notice, communication is important, even if I did a crappy job of showing it.”

Nodding, he filed away the advice. Before he could totally think it through, the question was out of his mouth. “So if you hadn’t been waiting for me to fucking bring it up… would these dates have gone differently?”

A breathy laugh left her mouth, puffs of steam rising into the night air. “Not totally, no. I’ve enjoyed just talking to you. But, well, there are a pair of panties in my purse right now. I wanted to tell you to get up in the middle of dinner to change into them.”

The admission wasn’t one he’d been fucking expecting, and it knocked the breath from him in a soft groan. Being made to change in a public place into something she wanted, no matter that the changing itself wasn’t fucking public, had his suit feeling hot against his skin. “You should have. I would have fucking loved it.”

“Another time then.” She shook her head in a quiet laugh, curls swaying around her face. “They are my panties too, you know.”

A shiver racing down his spine, he stopped in much the same way she had not ten minutes before. His hand was trembling as he raised it to her face, pausing not a hair’s breadth from her skin. “May I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

As their lips met, slow and parting after a moment into a sweet, wet kiss, one thought was the last to leave his head.

I’m her sub.


	10. Restricted Matter Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny and Belle finally have the Talk about their limits and desires - Part 1 of 2.

With ice crunching under their feet, Danny couldn’t even say how long it took for the familiar outline of their squat building to appear on the street in front of them. He was fucking flying, the pieces in his head feeling like they’d finally clicked into place, and she’d taken his hand in her own like he fucking belonged there. But he supposed he did now – belong, that was – and it had him excited and nervous by turns. Belonging wasn’t territory he was fucking familiar with, and as they climbed the stairs and stood outside his door, Belle didn’t move to follow him inside.

“A lot happened tonight,” she murmured, a half-smile on her lips.

He pulled at the sleeves of his too-small coat, still welcome in the drafty hallway. His lips itched to fucking kiss her again. “Aye, it fucking did.”

“That’s why, if you’re okay with it… I think it would be a good idea to give it a couple days before we jump into it. Time to think and all, you know.”

“Think about – ?” It felt like someone had pushed a button and opened a trapdoor under his feet, because suddenly the whole fucking thing was going tits up. It hadn’t even been twenty minutes and she was already regretting it – not that he was surprised, but he thought he’d at least get maybe more than twenty minutes. “As in, think if you want to fucking be with me?”

“If I want to – what?” Her eyes went wide and she looked like a fish for a moment, gaping, but her features softened as realization dawned. He was so fucking used to having the rug ripped out from under him, he wouldn’t have blamed her if she had. “Oh no, Danny, not that at all. I promise.”

The vice of anxiety that had tightened around his chest eased a little at that, the rest mostly taken care of when Belle gripped him by the shoulders, her hands firm and comforting. Though he’d never fucking admit it aloud, he liked being touched, even if it was just on the shoulder or the hand, and the way she moved her thumbs made him wish he wasn’t still wearing his coat – winter could go to fucking hell.

“I meant that you should just let it sink in, and think about how deep you want to get into this. I’m going to be busy tomorrow anyway, and on Saturday I think we should discuss it fully, set up some rules and limits.” One of her hands left his shoulders to touch his neck, and he almost shivered at the sensation. “You’re still mine, no matter how far we decide to take it.”

Hers. Danny didn’t know how a single word could have anxiety and excitement lancing down his spine to land in his balls, but this one fucking did. Her thumb swiped across the apple of his throat, bobbing under her touch. He choked back something that wasn’t quite words, saying, “What are you doing tomorrow?”

The question made her sigh and pull away, and he could have fucking kicked himself at the loss of contact. She didn’t sound happy, tiredness bleeding into her tone. “It’s mandatory training for all Archive staff in my division. Books aren’t all fun and games, you know.”

“In school they never much were.”

If he’d been born with a filter, he might have stopped the fucking inane comment from coming through, but Belle didn’t seem to mind. The corner of her lip curled upwards in a way he knew meant she was trying to hide a smile, and he could only stare, entranced. Whatever the look was on his face – something he’d never bothered to fucking keep in check – she clearly found it amusing. She’d said he didn’t so much wear his emotions on his sleeve as have them plastered all over his fucking face like one of the giant billboards in Piccadilly, and there were times he had to agree.

“So.” He swallowed, and regained some composure. “Saturday afternoon then?”

“Come by around 1.” Belle leaned close for just a second, her lips light on his, and then she was pulling away with a bright smile and a cheery wave. She paused at her door, head sticking out while the heavy wood hid her body from view. “I’ll be quite displeased if you’re late.”

Danny cracked a smile, feeling almost out of breath. It was really going to fucking happen. “I won’t be.”

The door closed softly then, her head ducking back inside, and he found his feet rooted to the shoddy carpet for a few moments. A whole day and a half stretched between him and what he’d been fucking dreaming about – wet, dry, and every fucking thing in between – for ages. Putting it that way almost made it seem easy. What was a day and a half to months of waiting?

As it turned out, that day and a half felt like some fucking trickster what thought he was being smart kept flicking back the minute hand on his clock whenever it advanced. A day and a half meant fuck-all when it felt like three months, even the busy night of Friday at the club doing little to make the time fucking pass. All he seemed to find around every corner was another bout of trouble, whether it be financial or physical or otherwise, and after the third girl what come storming into his office complaining about the floor that night was sent back out, he was about ready to explode. He may have liked to fucking dive into his cups every now and again too, but at least he wasn’t the grabby sort that seemed to be littering the floor like it was some kind of fucking convention that night. You fucking paid to touch – it wasn’t fucking free – and doing it outside of the VIP rooms in the back was going to cost him his license.

Fucking Christ. Two days without Belle and everything went to shit in his life like it almost fucking knew.

But, problems mostly dealt with and the girls mostly appeased enough to keep fucking dancing, Friday night passed as things fucking tended to do and he fell into bed around three am with something almost like a smile.

The next day saw him in front of her door, ten minutes early, despite the lingering headache he’d almost been able to banish with a healthy overdose of paracetamol. He rapped on the door like he had nothing to be fucking nervous about, and he’d never admit it, but a small part of him was surprised that she actually opened the door.

“Is tea alright?”

She locked the door behind him, gesturing for him to take a seat on the couch he’d come to associate with one of the most arousing experiences of his life. No fucking pressure or anything.

He nodded, sitting oh so casually onto the green fabric and trying to make himself comfortable. “Earl Grey, thanks.”

“Somehow I figured you’d say that.” A look cast over her shoulder revealed the tiniest smile, and he caught sight of the two mugs already sitting on the counter. “I already started steeping them, should just be a minute or two.”

Fidgeting with his powder blue button-up, he’d forgone a jacket in favor of a more casual look, as casual as he got outside of his apartment anyway. The dark blue trousers he’d liberated from a suit clashed against the couch, and he let his knees fall to the sides as he sunk down into the cushions. He was already excited as fucking hell, he might as well not look like he was sitting on fucking nails.

Belle tended to the tea in the kitchen, preparing it the way they liked, and true to her word brought them into the living room after a few moments. She stopped just in front of him, mugs in either hand, and looked down at where her knee brushed his own.

“You sit like a whore.”

The statement buzzed like a wire down his spine, yanking him upwards with a sputtering, “Beg your fucking pardon?”

“Just look for yourself. Legs spread. Cock… very present. And I can see your balls, by the way.” As if nothing was amiss, and truth be told nothing was, she handed him his mug and took a careful sip of her own. Blowing over the surface, she clarified, “It’s not meant to be an insult, just stating a fact.”

The mug was a good excuse for something to do with his hands, and he busied himself with finding the best fucking position for it on his thigh. He sat more comfortably upwards and scooted back against the cushion. “Plenty of blokes sit like that.”

Her laugh fell from her lips as she fell onto the couch, barely managing not to spill any tea in the process. “Not all men are my subs.”

The reminder had him smiling, probably a little goofily if her chuckle was any indication. “Fair enough. So uh, how was training?”

She gave a dismissive hand wave, the pull at the corner of her mouth telling just what she thought of the whole affair. “Oh it was alright. They brought in one of the most… distasteful women I have ever met. Mills something or other. A government official, mid-level. Insufferable.”

Danny snorted into his tea, trying to picture a woman so fucking heinous she made someone like Belle hate her. Must be a real fucking peachy piece of work. “What the fuck she want with you guys?”

“Apparently as employees of the Archives, we are responsible for information relating to her department. And she isn’t too happy with how we do things.” At his raised eyebrow, she added, “Kept going on and on about regulations we were skirting and such things. That’s what the ‘training’ was for. Really the woman just had a power complex the size of Australia.”

If he’d learned anything in the weeks he’d known her, it took a lot to fucking tick Belle off. It took even more to have her whinging about it. If he was in her shoes, he had the distinct feeling he’d have, well… he’d be lying if he’d said he would have punched the woman exactly, because that sort of shite brought lawsuits he didn’t fucking need and tended to hurt his hand – but he probably would have yelled something fucking fierce and wouldn’t she be fucking sorry then. He might spit in her coffee too when she wasn’t fucking looking and called up someone who could make her day worse than he ever could. Belle had probably taken it in silence, but he never made any claims as to being fucking noble.

When he told her as much, she’d chuckled and playfully smacked his arm, and he bit back the clarification that no, actually, he was fucking serious. She probably already knew that though.

He shifted in his seat, fidgeted more like but shifted sounded better, and he could feel the mood change as her eyes took in the motion. Although he doubted it, Danny wondered if Belle was drawn as fucking tight inside as he was – a part of him hoped so.

Taking another sip from her tea, she leaned back into the space created between his torso and where his arm flung over the back of the couch. Belle settled in like she owned the spot, which she fucking did to be honest, and tipped her face upwards. This wasn’t how he’d seen it going, but he certainly wasn’t fucking complaining, and neither was she when he tentatively brought his arm around her.

“So, been thinking?” She asked.

He nodded, clearing his throat. There’d been thinking and then there’d been touching, but he supposed it fucking counted. “And other things.”

“Good. I think the best thing would be to talk about our rules and hard limits. Do you know what those are?”

Her eyes gazed unblinkingly up at him, and he had to fight not to be distracted by them. “Yeah. I do.”

“And we should pick a safe word.” Her thumb ghosted over the rim of her mug, and the movement caught his eye. “Did you have any in mind?”

Truth be told he hadn’t really decided on one, so he said the fucking first thing to come to mind. “Parrot.”

Her wince spoke her answer before she did. “Maybe pick another? We might conceivably use the word parrot in a scene.”

“When the fuck are we going to use the word parrot?”

“If I start comparing you or your panties to a stripper at the Parrot Club,” Belle explained with a laugh, seemingly aware of the sudden bloom of warmth low in his belly. “So pick something else.”

Half of his mind still fixated on the idea of Belle calling him a stripper, and he wasn’t fucking sure how to feel about how his cock fucking felt about that, the other half scrambled for a word. Something random. And distinct. That’s what all the websites had said. What didn’t he fucking say often?

“Apricot,” he finally supplied.

She seemed to think for a moment, probably running through various scenarios. “Works for me. Just make sure you remember it.”

“I won’t forget.”

Idly tracing over her shoulder where his hand lightly rested, he couldn’t deny that his hand looked fucking huge compared to the gentle curve of her neck, left bare by the way she’d pulled her hair to the side. He wanted to touch, to run his fingers behind her ear and down to her collarbone. But she hadn’t said he could.

He could ask, he should ask, but the knowledge that they were taking care of something important and the lingering fear she might not be pleased with it stilled his tongue.

Instead, he figured they might as well fucking jump two feet first into taking care of business. It’s what he’d been looking forward to anyway, and when he hadn’t been dealing with fucking grabby blokes at the club, the better part of the last couple days had been spent online.

Wishing he had his tea in his hand, now currently on the table, his fingers twitched on his thigh. “Should I start, or do you want to?”

“You can.” Her eyes met his again, her cheek against the side of his chest warm and comforting. “I’m all ears.”

“So I guess… well, I don’t like pain – it’s not really my fucking area at all. Or choking. Or whipping, cropping, physical punishment, that sort of thing. There are St. Andrew’s crosses at the club and I’ve seen that kind of play for years, but it means fuck-all to me.” He’d looked up masochism-oriented lists and been entirely uninterested, even a little repulsed depending on the activity, and Danny had quickly seen he preferred a more mental approach than a physical one.

Getting back on track, he continued, “I wouldn’t want anything done in public, or at least not in a way that other people knew about it, if we were in public.”

“Makes sense to me,” she replied. “Not really my thing either. And you know this isn’t 24/7, right?”

He’d come across that term multiple times, and while the idea of it had tickled his fucking curiosity in a theoretical way, it definitely wasn’t something he wanted to pursue in a practical manner. He wanted to please her, sure, but he wanted to fucking be his own person, be an equal, too.

“I know, I’d figured,” he said. Good to have it clarified though.

“Anything else?”

“As far as bondage and restraints go, I’m indifferent. They aren’t hard limits, but I don’t prefer them either. I think… I think in that case, I’d rather you tell me to fucking stay somewhere, or hold some position, and I’d do it, you know?”

She nodded in answer, her visage open and easygoing, and he was fucking thankful he’d rehearsed this in his head all morning or else the words wouldn’t be coming out quite so fucking smooth. He wanted to be like butter, he wanted to look like he was in control of his fucking sexuality, rather than stumbling along in the dark like he’d done for decades.

“What about spanking – still a hard limit?”

Her question caught him off guard, but at least he’d thought about that one too. Quite a bit in fact. “No, as long as it’s not done too hard, I don’t think I’d mind. Especially if…”

A smile flickered on her lips; she probably could see right through him. “Especially if what?”

Breath left his mouth shakily, and he had to look away. “If I got to keep my panties on for it.”

“That can definitely be arranged.” Her laugh, rich and deep and the kind that whispered so many dirty things into his ear, felt like a spark in his gut, and the way she nuzzled her cheek against his chest didn’t help. “If that’s the end of your limits… what is it that you want then?”

He’d practiced this too, probably more than the first half – it was fucking easy to say you didn’t like something, but to own up and announce, plain and clear as fucking day, you wanted the woman in your arms to do it to you? That took fucking bollocks. Still, he’d walked into far more dangerous situations and walked out again, and this one didn’t even require a bulletproof vest.

His hand fidgeted with the fabric of his pants covering one thigh, and he looked down at the way his fingers slid over the fold. Knowing what he was going to tell her, to ask her, already had him thickening. She’d fucking see it soon.

“To put it basically, I want to serve you.” There, wasn’t so fucking difficult. And now the rest just needed to follow. “I want to get you things and kneel, and kiss your feet, and, well, fucking- fucking worship your body, yeah? And I was reading things, and I liked the idea of being your table, or your furniture, or your toy. I want to be – fuck, how do I say this…”

He swallowed, and wasn’t this just a fucking rare sight, Danny Devine at a loss for words – but they hadn’t fucking talked about this part now had they? Glancing upwards, Belle only nodded encouragingly for him to continue. “I want to be… available to please you sexually at all times. With my mouth, hands, anything. When it gets to that point, the fucking point, that is, if it, well, if it does.”

Her brows rose at that, and whatever she’d been expecting, apparently that wasn’t it. “You don’t have to do that if you’re not comfortable with it. I won’t push for anything you don’t want.”

A bark of laughter left his mouth, and he might have kept laughing if not for the way his head was reeling from the notion that she hadn’t said no to the idea of sex with him. If she could peer into his head to see the fucking thoughts he’d had for months, she wouldn’t doubt his desire. Still, it was nice she was giving him the option, however unneeded. “If I don’t want to at any point I’ll use the safe word, but I really, really fucking like the idea of being available for you.”

The slight upturn to her lip relieved whatever lingering doubt he’d had that she would turn him down, and if he wasn’t hard before, he fucking was now. Discreetly, but probably just really fucking blatantly despite his efforts, he tried to adjust the way his cock tented his trousers.

Belle didn’t glance down, but the steady way she held his gaze made him wonder if she wanted to. Her tongue snaked out to lick across her lips, the movement entrancing. “You haven’t really mentioned your panties,” she said. “Besides the spanking, that is.”

“I figured you would already know everything about that.”

She shrugged, the movement pushing against his chest. “Probably. But in the interests of being thorough, I want you to tell me something I might not know. Plus,” and here she fucking smiled again, the kind that went right to his toes, “I like hearing you talk about it.”

Practically feeling the blood leaving his head, Danny swallowed, concentrating on the feeling of his hand on her shoulder. “I’d like it if you’d insult me, you know, because of them. You called me sissy boy at dinner, remember?”

“I remember.”

“It got me – shite…” If there was one thing he wasn’t, it was tactful. “It got me fucking hot at dinner and I’ve been thinking about it since. I never thought I’d like it, but I fucking do. Any other name too, something – well something fucking humiliating.”

He could feel her nodding against him, even though he’d had to look down. Her arm was not more than an inch away from his cock, and the fleeting image of her stroking him ever so lightly through his pants as she told him what a sissy he was burned across his mind. His cock twitched at the thought, and he had to bite back a moan.

Summoning words from God knew fucking where, he added, “I want you to make me wear my panties, and hose too.”

His eyes jumped back to her face just to catch the arch smile there, and the way her eyes seemed to leaf through him like the pages of one of her books. He was probably so fucking transparent to her. “You wear them anyway.”

A chuckle left his mouth, more breathy than he had ever fucking heard it – but the way his trousers squeezed his cock like a vice would do that. “Yeah, I know, but I’d like it if maybe you could pick them out for me. Or tell me which ones to wear. Or… give me yours, if you’d fancy that.”

“I could.” Her hand crept from its position on her own lap, arm closest to the bulge in his trousers shifting to accommodate its path up his thigh. She didn’t touch it, merely came close, her fingers maddeningly still and maddeningly far. “Have you ever come in your panties before?”

The question made him choke a bit, and he fucking knew she didn’t miss the way he twitched this time. “Yes.”

“I want to see.”

Breath rushing out of his lungs, his hands fumbled for his trousers, clumsy in their haste to undo his belt and stopped only by the chime of Belle’s laugh. Her hand stilled him further, pressing against his hands and trapping them over his cock.

“I’m sorry – I meant at some point.” Her grin eased some of his disappointment, as did the way she pressed harder. If she wanted him to fucking moan, she was close to succeeding. “But I like your enthusiasm.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me as somethingstately on tumblr, by the way. I have much more work up there in my Masterlist.


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